What Shadows We Are
by NHPW
Summary: AU.  John Sheridan is a burned-out cop looking for a cause to put his life back on track - or end it.  He finds it in the city of Babylon, in the effort to stop an escalating turf war between two rival gangs - the Vorlons and the Shadows.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not really sure how to do a disclaimer for an AU. Um – Sheridan, Delenn, Ivanova, Marcus, Kosh, Morden, Garibaldi and anybody else whose name you recognize from the series are property of JMS/Warner Brothers. The plot is mine. The words are mine. Mine mine mine. Except for the stuff I didn't make up. Yeah. Something like that.

**Notes: **This is my very first ever Babylon 5 AU, so please excuse the lengthy notes. I am still working on "show, don't tell." The inspiration for this story came from a newspaper article I read about how gang warfare is just beginning to become a problem in the city where I live, which has a population of around 56,000 within the city proper but has had very few issues with crime until recently and is often described as "78 square miles surrounded by reality." (You'll see a reference to the city of Babylon proper in the same context.) I read the article, which narrowed down that there are mostly two factions that are an issue here, and then my mind started to wander and I went – _hey, self. The Vorlons and the Shadows are kind of like gangs. No, seriously. And Sheridan and Co. are like the police force that said, "Get out of our city and never come back." Except, you know, more forcefully than that._ And an AU was born.

I did a lot of research for this story, probably more than I've ever done for any story ever, and I tried to clarify idiosyncrasies for readers who might not have the same knowledge. When it gets to the meatier parts, if there are things that are unclear, feel free to call me on it.

One thing that I should probably clarify right off is that my research suggests that ranking works differently within a police force than it does in the military, and a Commander would rank _higher_ than a Captain. Hence the chain of command structure here – which I will admit was _tons_ of fun.

**Summary: **John Sheridan is a burned-out cop looking for a cause to put his life back on track – or end it. He finds it in Babylon, where two rival gangs are building to a turf war that would threaten the lives of the city's civilians if allowed to come to a head. Against the better judgment of his superior - Babylon's esteemed Commander Susan Ivanova - he takes a position undercover within the Shadows where he finds more trouble – and more hope for redemption – than he bargained for. Present-day.

**Rating:** R for language, violence, sexual situations, drug use and general suckiness of life.

**Thanks** to Shannon for being an excellent beta on this. I don't care what you say, I did too need it, and your help is greatly appreciated.

And with that… on with the show!

**What Shadows We Are**

**Prologue**

"A thunderstorm warning remains in effect for most of Epsilon County, with a caution that there may be some flooding in low-lying areas…"

Click. Drink.

"The Dodgers were up two runs at the bottom of the fifth, but a three-run homer for Gonzales in the seventh brought the Astros ahead by one, and they managed to hold the lead through the end of the game."

The Dodgers lost again? Fuck. Drink. Click. Drink.

"And finally tonight, we bring an update on the investigation into the death of Babylon Police Department Commander Jeffrey David Sinclair. ISN News has been following this story since Sinclair's mysterious disappearance over three months ago, and as we reported last week, his body was discovered in a wooded area just outside Babylon proper, near the border with the village of Narn. An autopsy confirms cause of death as severe trauma caused by repeated and savage beating with fists as well as blunt objects. At the time of his death, Sinclair was investigating a street gang known as the Shadows who have descended on the city of Babylon en masse over the last two years. By allowing Sinclair's body to be discovered, it would seem the Shadows are sending the city a message: They are not to be messed with, and they are here to stay."

Cl— No, wait. This is relevant.

Pause for thought. Drink.

Thunder caused the television to flicker, and lightning flashed right outside the window. John Sheridan glanced outside with mild interest. He barely took notice of the rain coming down in sheets or the clap of thunder that seemed to shake the whole building. Nothing scared him anymore. Very little touched him in any way, anymore.

His heart twitched, just a little – a flicker of feeling, and he quickly downed the rest of his glass of whiskey, sighing as the delicious burn of alcohol squelched that twitch in an instant.

Commander Ivanova – The Pretty Police Lady, Sheridan had decided to call her – was on the screen now. She was giving vague details about Sinclair's autopsy, and she sounded absolutely dedicated to bringing down this gang, these… Shadows. Sheridan admired her spirit.

"I admire your spirit, Pretty Lady," he told his TV, and then gave a frown as he tilted his glass to the side and only an ice cube fell out, making a pathetic little "thump" on the thin green carpet. "Even if it is a waste," he grumbled, not sure anymore if he was speaking about the ice cube, or the Pretty Police Lady, or both. Or maybe himself. Of all of those things, he decided, he was most definitely _at least_ talking about himself.

When he looked at the TV again, the Pretty Police Lady was gone and the news was over, and now there was an infomercial about some sort of blanket that you wear. Sheridan shook his head.

Click.

But now he was distracted, and he pushed the "channel up" button without really stopping to see what was on. He was thinking about that report, about the Shadows, and about the Pretty Police Lady and what she had said. She was going to take down the Shadows, she said, if it was the last thing she did. She was calling on the peace officers in neighboring towns and suburbs to come in and help.

That would be him.

"That would be me," he said out loud, and then belched loudly. "Mmm. Tomorrow, though." He was very tired. He'd worked all day, filing reports in Agamemnon, this little town of which he was the Fucking Captain of Police, which mostly meant he wrote speeding tickets and told kids not to steal gum or call 9-1-1 unless it was a real emergency. It filled up a day, but it was mindless, mostly.

The mindless part was the problem. Sheridan needed something he could throw himself into, and this was not it. Three months ago, just after Commander Sinclair's disappearance, he'd taken interest in the story unveiling in Babylon, the story of the Shadows, and had decided this was exactly what he needed. It was a big deal – until a couple of years ago, Babylon proper had been 25 square miles of relative utopia surrounded by reality, somehow sheltered from the social problems that ebbed at the underbelly of other growing cities its size. But, as the news lady (who was pretty, Sheridan would admit, but not as pretty as the Pretty Police Lady) had succinctly pointed out, the Shadows had come to town and changed all that. Now they were a city that lived in fear. Businesses made deals, became corrupt, because they were afraid of what would happen to them if they didn't. Young people were recruited to serve as street soldiers. And then another gang had emerged, seemingly out of nowhere – they called themselves the Vorlons, and while they were less of a problem, they were still a gang, and they were therefore still a problem. What made them a bigger problem was that in many larger cities, the Vorlons and the Shadows were sworn enemies, locked in turf wars and blood oaths for decades. And that, it seemed, was what would happen in Babylon if someone didn't do something. If Sheridan's hazy mind understood the news reports correctly, the two sides had already had minor clashes in the city streets while citizens stood by. It was a miracle no innocent blood had yet been spilled.

And so, Sheridan had decided after Sinclair had been missing for less than a week, he was putting in for a transfer. By all rights he should get it – his record since joining the force was exemplary, and he had the rare advantage of having a history in two things that would prove useful in this situation: undercover operation and gang warfare. He'd spent nearly two years undercover in New Vegas just out of the Academy, and when it was over, they took down the city's largest drug ring and were able to… persuade… several of the perpetrators to give them a list of names of buyers. Eventually that had led them to securing the Centauri, a relatively low-profile but potentially deadly street gang who had been making trouble for the people of New Vegas for several years. Sheridan's involvement in all of this had earned him his first promotion.

And so there was no reason he shouldn't get that transfer. Except that he sort of sucked at life right now.

"Yep," he said aloud, nodding to himself. And Police Chief Kosh – whose orders Sheridan had gotten and executed for his entire career in Epsilon County but whom he had never actually met – _knew_ that Sheridan sucked at life, and he knew why, and he had been the very man to assign Sheridan to this position in Agamemnon, which was barely a step up from a desk job.

With a dejected sigh, Sheridan glanced out at the storm. When it rained and he was drunk, he sometimes thought that God was crying for him. If there really was a God, that was. He wasn't sure anymore. He hadn't been sure for two years, ever since…

He shook his head and got up from his chair, clicking off the television as he did so. Might as well go to bed.

But he was navigating his way back toward his bedroom when his phone rang. And like any good police officer who was two sheets to the wind, he thought long and hard about ignoring it before he answered just before the call went to voicemail. "'Lo?"

"Your transfer is approved."

The wheels were not turning very fast. Sheridan cycled through the list of people who would do this kind of shit this late at night and was about to hang up on the prank caller when a dim mental light bulb flickered through the alcoholic haze. "Kosh?"

"Yes."

"My transfer… to Babylon?"

"Yes. Your destiny awaits."

The truth about Chief Kosh was that Sheridan sometimes believed he was probably the Wizard of Oz, a dinky little shit of a man concealed behind an impressive show of lights and fireworks. "When should I leave?"

"When you are ready."

Sheridan rolled his eyes. He glanced down at his blue-and-white plaid checkered bathrobe and took note of the smell of his breath. Well he was certainly not ready _right now._ "Ready for what?"

"To fight legends."

"Listen, you son of a bitch." Sheridan had had enough mind games for one night. What the fuck was Kosh talking about? Did anyone ever know? It didn't matter – Sheridan was in _no mood._ "If they're really expecting me in Babylon, if I'm really going into the fire down there, you need to give me more to go on than a couple of creepy sentences about destiny. When are they expecting me?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Sheridan had just opened his mouth to continue his tirade when the quiet voice came again. "You do not understand," Kosh sighed. "Two days." The line went dead. Sheridan resisted the urge to open his window and chuck his phone out into the rain.

Two days. He hoped to hell he was sober by then. He did not want to call Commander Ivanova the Pretty Police Lady to her face; he had the sneaking suspicion it would not go over well.


	2. Chapter 1: Points of Departure

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 1 – Points of Departure**

Morning came too fast. Morning always came too fast. John gave a disgruntled grunt in the general direction of his blaring alarm clock and pulled a pillow over his face.

And then it hit him.

Today was the day his new life began. A life, he thought, that maybe he would not suck so much at. A life that mattered. A life that would be a fresh start. A life where he could prove to himself that he could be more than a burned-out cop in a bedroom community – and have a role in something that really mattered.

Assuming he could break a few bad habits.

On this thought, he rubbed absently at his cheeks – "Damn," he mumbled, and wondered about the last time he'd shaved. Two… three days? Definitely needed to shave today. Didn't want to make a bad first impression on the Pretty Police La—Ivanova. "Ivanova," John said aloud as he hoisted himself out of bed. "The commander's name… is Ivanova." He shuffled to his kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and opened his refrigerator.

It contained exactly one half-gallon of milk, three apples, half of a six-inch meatball sub, two pieces of string cheese and three six-packs of beer.

He reached for a beer but stopped himself and made his hand grasp the meatball sub instead. "Carbs," he told himself. "That should help." A stifled yawn, another feel of his stubbly cheeks, and a glance down at himself – yeah. He'd need a shower. A long, hot shower, probably followed by a cold one to make sure he was completely awake and completely sober by the time he arrived in Babylon.

As he ate his breakfast and washed it down with two cups of coffee, he gave some consideration to what he was doing. He was giving up a position in which he made his own hours, held the reigns of command and – for the most part – stayed out of harm's way. It was comfortable. It allowed him to keep his (admittedly not too healthy) habits. It was a good job.

But it was boring.

It was boring, and deep down he knew he was better than this. He wanted so badly to prove that he was better than this.

It crossed his mind that he believed he'd had this same conversation with himself the night Chief Kosh had called, but he couldn't remember for sure. He finished off the sandwich with a swig of milk straight from the carton and then headed off for the shower.

Forty minutes later, clean and clean-shaven, he returned to the bedroom and laid his uniform out on the bed. He ran his hands over the dark blue fabric thoughtfully; when was the last time he'd put this on and felt like anything more than a rent-a-cop?

He knew exactly when. He could pin it down to a day.

He pulled the pants on slowly, one leg at a time, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he zipped them up. His reflection, he noted, had a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His white dress shirt came next, and on normal days in Agamemnon, this was where he stopped. He'd pin on the badge without much of a thought and walk out the door. Maybe he'd grab his sidearm; probably not, on most days. But today… today was a very different kind of day. And so he reached down to pick up the blue jacket and pulled it on slowly, almost reverently. Then from the top drawer of his dresser, he pulled the shiny gold shield, palming it, studying it for a long, pensive moment.

This was new. It had just arrived yesterday via courier, and he hadn't really taken the time to get a good look at it; he'd been busy packing, so he'd set it in this drawer and not given it much thought. Now he ran his thumb over the raised inscription – "Babylon PD" it said, and below the state seal – "Captain."

Captain.

He'd been a captain for four years. It had meant something, once upon a time.

In the city of Babylon, in the fight against the Shadows and the battle to stop a turf war that threatened the lives of so many innocents, maybe he could make it mean something again. Maybe he could make _himself_ mean something. He felt in spite of himself a twinge of pride at being able to put on this shield, this uniform.

For as long as he wore it, that was. It wouldn't be long before grubby street clothes took their place, because he knew he would willing to lay aside his commission, his badge, his protection and descend into the Shadows for the good of Babylon and all its citizens… and for himself… and for Anna.

"I love you," he whispered, eyes locking on a framed photograph of the red-headed woman who had been his whole world. He affixed the badge to his left breast pocket and gave himself a final once-over before reaching for his hat and exiting the room.

It was an hour commute to Babylon. Time to hit the road.

* * *

Commander Susan Ivanova was not having a good day. She had already been running late this morning when somehow – _somehow_ – she'd managed to spill coffee on the white shirt she wore beneath her dark blue uniform jacket. With a curse, she'd pulled off the shirt and gone back into the bedroom, where Marcus was just rousing from his slumber. He took one note of her in her bra and started giving her bedroom eyes – which on most days would have ended with a playful before-work bedroom tango, but today she was in no mood. She'd shooed him away when he'd wrapped his arms around her waist and started laying kisses along her perfectly cut abdomen.

"Marcus, knock it off." She had said, swatting at his long dark locks and pushing him back onto the bed. And he had pouted at her. Again, normally – well, normally, things would have happened that would have made her _very_ late, and it wouldn't have been a big deal, but this morning – no.

She'd rolled her eyes at him, pulled on a clean white undershirt quickly followed by her uniform jacket and stormed out of the bedroom, leaving Marcus staring after her wistfully.

And then there had been traffic, because she had left home five minutes late, which by commuter time meant that by the time she was on the road, so was everyone else in the whole fucking universe, and by the time she pulled into the BPD parking lot, five minutes had turned into thirty-five minutes.

So she was already not having a good day, and then the dispatcher stopped her on her way in. "Commander."

"I'm late. What is it?" She was pulling her long chestnut hair back into a tight bun at the back of her head as she stood in the lobby, and she didn't care who was watching.

"Captain Sheridan, Ma'am – "

"I know - he starts today. I'm expecting him at 0900, and I hope for his sake he's not a punctual man, because I have a thing or two to get done –"

"He's in your office, Ma'am."

Ivanova closed her eyes. Counted very slowly to ten. Or she intended to count to ten – she got as far as three before her eyes popped back open and she exploded on the dispatcher. "What do you mean he's in my office? He can't be in my office. It's only – " She looked at her watch. "I have at least twenty minutes."

"No, Captain Sheridan was told to be here at 0800, Ma'am."

"By whom?"

"Kosh."

Again, eyes closed. Counting to ten. One… two… three… four… fi—fuck it. "Thank you." She nodded at the dispatcher, punched her security code into the keypad at the door and strode toward her office, muttering expletives under her breath as she went.

She was still muttering when she reached her office. She peeked in the window to get a glimpse of the captain, whom she'd heard a great deal about – and whose file she'd studied thoroughly last night – but whom she'd never actually met. He didn't look like much, she thought. A pretty boy. Clearly worked out, stayed away from the donut table, so that much was good. But he had a troubled past, and that made her wary of him from the get-go; as she understood it, he'd lost his wife two years ago when she'd been taken hostage by a drug cartel Sheridan had been trying to take down, and not only had the FBI refused to pay the ransom – they'd also lost tabs on the cartel. Anna Sheridan had been missing ever since, and was presumed dead. Sheridan blamed himself. And that made her nervous.

She didn't like revenge-seekers under her command. She didn't like officers with baggage. And she didn't like having someone transferred into her unit with very little notice _ever_, but she especially didn't like it when that person was being transferred in for a specific purpose because they had "a history" in something – which meant they were better at it than her. And this was what bothered her most of all about Sheridan. He was here because she had failed; because Sinclair had been killed; because she was in over her head when it came to gang warfare.

Sheridan was here to fight the Shadows.

And he was early.

And he was a pretty boy.

And he was reading an open file in her office _at her desk_, drinking from her "I don't like Mondays" coffee mug.

So, she would admit later, it was possible she was slightly less than friendly as she yanked open her office door and breezed into the room, with a final mutter under her breath, "And so it begins."

"Sorry I'm late. There was a mix-up about the time." She set her satchel down under her desk and extended a hand to Sheridan. "Commander Susan Ivanova. Welcome aboard."

"Well thank you." Sheridan set the file down and closed it, but not before Ivanova caught a glimpse of what was inside – the very brief dossier compiled on Mr. Morden, the Shadows' charismatic and fearless leader, and all the information they'd been able to gather before Sinclair's communications to them had stopped. He gave Ivanova a way-too-cheerful smile that reminded her of a Labrador Retriever puppy as he shook her extended hand. _Firm handshake_, she noted. _At least he's got that going for him._

"I'll get right to it." She sat down behind her desk facing Sheridan and folded her hands on the desk in front of her as she locked eyes with him. "As I understand it, you are here for one purpose and one purpose only, and that is to secure a position undercover within the Shadows. I think we'll work well together if you remember that this is my operation, Captain, and I give the orders here. So you don't move without telling me, and you don't breathe without telling me, and you don't do _jack shit_ without telling me, because that is exactly the kind of behavior that causes us to lose good officers."

"Like Jeffrey Sinclair."

"Yes. Like Sinclair."

"What happened with Sinclair was unfortunate." Now Sheridan had dropped the puppy-dog smile and his hazel eyes were meeting hers, unblinking, as he spoke. "I will respect your command, but you have to give me the flexibility to do my job, and sometimes that means improvising to keep my cover and _to keep myself alive_."

Ivanova considered this for a long moment. "Everything in your record says you're going to cause me trouble," she said finally, her voice dangerously level. "You're a hotshot, you don't like authority figures and you come with more baggage than the rest of this unit combined."

"My personal life and my work are two different things."

"Oh?" Ivanova raised her eyebrows now, and Sheridan had a fleeting thought that this was not the Pretty Police Lady he remembered from TV. Dragon Lady, more like. The kind that eats her young. "Last time, they got to your wife. It cost her her life, and as I understand it you drag that elephant everywhere you go."

"That's _not fair_!" Sheridan exploded and stood up. Ivanova's eyes followed him. He was taller than she'd thought, and with his brow creased like that he wasn't nearly as pretty. "I did what had to be done. You know as well as anyone here that we do not negotiate with terrorists, no matter the price. I asked my commanding officer for an exception to be made with regard to this particular hostage and he said no. Yes, I carry that around with me _every day_, but it doesn't affect the way I do my job."

"Bull!" Now Ivanova was on her feet, and though she didn't match his height, she knew what her glare did to anyone who dared to cross her. "Kosh pulled you from the field and benched you in Agamemnon because you couldn't keep your head in the game. There was no other reason for that transfer and I _know_ you didn't ask for it the way you asked for this one. You were a good officer, once upon a time. Now I have every reason to doubt that you can pull off this sting without getting yourself – or anyone else - killed."

Sheridan took several deep breaths. He closed his eyes and Ivanova couldn't help reflecting that he was much better at counting to ten than she was. "I'm here to do a job," he said finally, and he was holding her stare as he spoke in a tense, emotionless tone. "And if you know Kosh, and you know why he pulled me out of Minbar and reassigned me in Agamemnon two years ago, then you must know he wouldn't have sent me here, now, for this, unless I was the right person for that job."

Not only was he pretty, he was smart, too. Damn it. "You're right." Ivanova hated saying those words, especially when she had to say them to a man or someone under her command. This was both, and it tasted like someone had forgotten to put sugar in the lemonade. "OK. Let's start over." Again she extended her hand. Again, Sheridan shook it. They remained standing, and Ivanova picked up the file Sheridan had been studying when she'd come in. "Sinclair was the best of the best, and they fingered him after six months. I don't know why and I don't know how, but they did, and he paid for it with his life. In his last communiqué with us, he gave us what information he could. Your target man is Mr. Morden." Sheridan flipped open the file. A black-and-white mugshot was paperclipped to the inside cover. "That's the only name we've got to go on. We ran him through the computer and came up with a few hits – small time, nothing major. He's done a little time for petty theft, concealed carry, and there are a couple of heavier charges that didn't stick – arson, sexual assault… kidnapping."

Sheridan raised his eyebrows. He'd been scanning the file as Ivanova spoke, but now he met her eyes over the edge of the open folder. "Kidnapping?"

"In Minbar, about five years ago. A young woman disappeared, and our man Mr. Morden was likely the last person to see her alive. They questioned him, searched his apartment, but they had to let him go; they found nothing. The case has been sealed, but she was never found."

A nod. "I remember that case." He hadn't been involved, not directly, but he'd read the reports. He turned to the second page in the very thin file. "Z'ha'dum," he muttered under his breath, then gave Ivanova a confused look. "That's the last you got from him?"

"Sinclair dropped off the face of the Earth about two days after we got that message. It's a bar in a less-than-desirable part of town. We staked it out but couldn't get anything good enough to go on, and the DA won't issue a search warrant unless we give him a good reason. That's where you come in." Now she took a step out from behind her desk and sighed, softening just a little. "It's not that I don't like you. It's not that I don't trust you. But Jeffrey Sinclair was the best officer I had, and they found him out, and they beat him so badly that it took his dental records to get a positive ID on his body."

"That won't happen to me."

"Don't be cocky."

"I'm not. But I am very, very good at my job."

"You used to be."

Sheridan paused then, mulled over her words. "I still am. It's all I have left." He closed the file. "We've got a name and a place. That's all I need to start. I'll go down there tonight and see what I can get."

"You don't –"

Sheridan held up a hand. "I don't move, and I don't breathe, and I don't do jack shit without talking to you first," he conceded. "But if they give me an opening, I'm taking it." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a challenge. There was none. "So I suggest we set up some check-in times and message drop locations just in case I get in and I can't feasibly get back out."

Ivanova considered this. Sheridan was basically an unknown in Babylon – an advantage Sinclair hadn't had. He had undercover experience – again, a point in his favor. And he had just the dangerous edge about him, veiled thinly by loss and hopelessness, that the Shadows would look for in a new recruit. Sinclair had never had a good cover; he didn't look like he belonged in a seedy bar; as far as Ivanova knew, he'd never been accepted into the Shadows beyond a low-level runner position, and had gathered what he did simply by quiet observation. It hadn't worked. They needed someone deep on the inside. Sheridan could believably be that someone. "OK. Let's get started."

* * *

Morden rolled over in the darkness, slowly snaking his arm around the middle of the naked woman who lay beside him. She was peacefully asleep, her porcelain skin marked now and again by bruises. Bruises he'd put there. He smirked, leaned in and sucked hard on her neck, causing her to cry out softly in her sleep. When he got what he wanted – her grey eyes shining up at him in the darkness – he let go and licked the spot. It would leave a mark, just like the others. "Again?" She whispered, her voice heavy with sleep. "I'm tired." A beautiful pout. He almost felt bad.

"You belong to me," he whispered in her ear as he rolled her onto her back beneath him. "I can't get enough of you."

She let out a sigh as he filled her and began to move within her. His mouth descended on her left nipple and she cried out. He laughed, hot against her tender skin, and she raised her knees to take him deeper. He was always like this after a big score, regardless of the medium. Blood, drugs, money, weapons – it didn't matter. He rode that rush for hours.

It had been blood tonight. It had been blood a lot lately. He didn't really tell her what was going on, but she was not stupid. She always knew in the way that he took her. The way he was possessing her, claiming her, marking her body tonight said it was blood. "You know I love you," he panted.

"I love you too," she whispered. Whether she meant it or not was immaterial.

"Me and no one else," he said now, and his sly smile faded just for a moment as he grabbed the hair at the back of her head and forced her to look into his eyes. "Tell me. Me and no one else."

"I love you… no one else."

"No matter who's fucking you."

"No matter – who's – fucking me."

"You're my girl. That's why I do this. You know that. Tell me you know that – you're _mine_."

"I'm – yours."

"Mine," he growled. "You belong to me."

"I belong – to you."

He grunted in response, drilled deeper, and then he angled himself to bring her pleasure, too, and she was lost in the moment.

When it was over, he fell asleep, and the woman beside him curled into a ball and allowed herself to cry a few silent tears.

She usually cried afterward when she could get away with it – when he was asleep - even on the rare occasion that it was good. Sure, Morden took good care of her. She never wanted for anything – except, of course, the obvious. He possessed her like no one else, gave her a reason to be, a reason to live – important, in a place like this. Was it the right reason? No. It was a goddamn awful and shameful reason. But it was a reason, and that was all that mattered, until she could find a way out. On this thought, she allowed sleep to claim her again, knowing that morning would come soon enough.

In her dreams, she saw a man with gentle hazel eyes and a warm, comforting smile. He'd been in her dreams before. She swore she knew him, but she could not remember his name.


	3. Chapter 2: The Geometry of Shadows

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 2 – The Geometry of Shadows**

Sheridan took a moment to size up the watering hole before he ventured inside. It was the most run-down place he'd pulled up a stool at in awhile – and that was saying something. It needed new paint, for starters, and a new roof. But plain as day on the door was the word he'd locked into his mind from Sinclair's report: Z'ha'dum. With a sigh, he pulled on the handle. The door swung open and he stepped inside.

It was empty. He checked his watch. Six o'clock – prime happy hour, but it seemed that if this bar had regulars, they weren't drinking today. The small room (which was in slightly better repair than the outside – and appeared to have been freshly painted, although he didn't care for the dark red color) had only one occupant, and he was stationed behind the bar, watching old Daffy Duck cartoons with a bemused smile on his face.

John pulled up a barstool and cleared his throat to attract attention. The bald man behind the counter looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Whiskey on the rocks," Sheridan ordered on the bartender's silent inquiry. A nod was his only response, and then the drink was in front of him. He paid for it. The bartender returned to his cartoon.

Sheridan slowly nursed the drink, noting to himself that it would be good to be sociable but he just didn't fucking feel like it. He watched the cartoon a bit. Drank a bit. Thought about his day.

Today was actually his fourth day on the Babylon police force. After a very tense first day, he'd spent quite a bit of time in strategic planning sessions with Commander Ivanova – whom he would never again call the Pretty Police Lady, even if she was all of those things – until she felt his story was solid enough to go into the fire. What story? He almost laughed aloud. There wasn't much to change, really. He liked to drink. He wanted revenge for the death of his wife at the hands of a drug cartel, last known to reside in Minbar. He didn't like authority figures. He was a deadly shot with a handgun and had a pretty decent right hook – but it was no match for his left.

And yesterday, he'd spent most of the day moving from Agamemnon into a one-bedroom apartment in Babylon; he could afford bigger and better, but if this went the way it was supposed to go – any bigger and they'd start using his place for their purposes.

"Busy day?" He finally said aloud, drawing the attention of the bartender.

The bald man scoffed. "You're kidding, right?"

A nod. "It always like this?"

"Some days are better than others."

Sheridan let out a noncommittal grunt and returned his attention to his drink. _Careful,_ he reminded himself. _They won't bite the hook you're bating if you slather it in alcohol. They'll be looking for a lost soul, not an alcoholic._

An hour passed, then another. John slowly worked his way through a second glass of whiskey and could feel it tingling at his nerves. He was about to give up for the night and go home when the bartender turned away from his stupid cartoon and spoke. "New in town?"

"What's it to you?"

The bartender offered a noncommittal shrug. "You just don't seem the type for a place like this, not if you've been living here for any length of time. You'd know better."

"Maybe I do. Maybe I just don't care."

The bartender studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, then wagged a finger at him. "No, you're new. I can see it in your eyes. So I'm going to give you a piece of advice. Go home. You don't want to be hanging around this part of town after dark."

"I can take care of myself." Sheridan pulled aside his jacket just enough to give the other man a glimpse of the gun tucked inside.

The bartender let out a low whistle. "I guess you can." And suddenly he seemed more interested. Sheridan scored a point for himself on his mental chalkboard ticker. "What's your story?"

"I don't tell stories to bartenders. I'm not that kind of drunk."

Another long pause. Then the bartender wiped his palms on a bar rag and extended his left hand in Sheridan's direction. "Michael Garibaldi."

"John Sheridan." He shook the outstretched hand in greeting.

"You got a badge to go with that pretty little piece, John Sheridan?"

Sheridan shook his head. "Not anymore."

"Anymore?" Raised eyebrows. "Now _that's_ interesting."

"My wife died." He took a long swig from his glass, emptied it. Garibaldi poured him another and he nodded in thanks. "She was a hostage. Peace officers don't negotiate with terrorists, that's what they told me. Nothing personal. Well. It was pretty personal for me." He shrugged. "So I figured if I couldn't do anything about it on the right side of the badge, then either I didn't belong in the force, or I'd do something about it on the other side. I haven't decided which yet."

"And that's why you're in a seedy bar on a weeknight, nursing your third glass of whiskey."

"Something like that."

Again, John felt himself being sized up. _Good._ He scored himself another tally point. But he didn't want to push too hard; this needed to go a little slower or it wouldn't be believable to the big man upstairs. If he was going to get in all the way, he couldn't force it. He quickly downed the third drink and swayed to his feet. "See you tomorrow."

Garibaldi held up a hand as a wave and John nodded at the gesture before stumbling out the door.

He was well down the block by the time Morden poked his head out of the shadows and raised his eyebrows at his bartender. "Who was that?"

"New guy. Widower. Nursing a serious grudge against our friends in blue."

"You buy it?"

"Maybe."

"What does he want?"

"From what I can tell? To drown in his whiskey," Garibaldi returned. "He likes whiskey. Good stuff. Expensive stuff. Man's got money if nothing else."

"Can we use him?"

"Don't know yet."

"Find out. If we can, I want to talk to him. He looks like he'd be a good fit. You and I both know there's a war coming, and when it gets here we're going to need allies – lots of them. If not…" a casual shrug. "Disappear him. _Quietly._ The last thing we need is a washed-up porker stumbling into our operation."

"Understood." Garibaldi leaned casually against the back of the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. "So. How'd it go today?"

"Not bad. Not bad at all." Morden's oily smile was plastered across his face as he paced a slow path behind the bar. "Nice clean weapons deal – just the way it should be. I'd say our arsenal is up to about 80 percent. New Guy's got his own gun?"

"Mmmhmmm."

"I like New Guy already. You get a name?"

"Sheridan. John Sheridan."

Morden paused longer than Garibaldi thought necessary on that name. His smile faded, brow creased, and a tinge of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Sheridan?"

"Yup."

Another lengthy pause. Then, dangerously low, "I want a background check, as complete as you can make it. And next time he's here, when he leaves, I want you to tail him. I wanna know where he lives, who he talks to and what he does during the day, before he shows up here."

"No problem. You want me to take anybody with me? Street soldiers, just in case?"

A slow shake of the head. Morden's mind was clearly on something else as he spoke. "I don't want you to take him out, I just want to know what game he's playing. You're my street coordinator for a reason, Garibaldi, and it's not because of your good looks. Be smart about this. Get the real story and get back to me without attracting his attention."

"Understood."

"Good." And then Morden was gone. Garibaldi shook his head and returned his attention to the television.

* * *

"How'd it go?"

Sheridan pressed his cell harder against his ear in the darkness of his apartment. He couldn't help smiling. "They like me."

As he delved into disclosure of his brief but telling meeting, he felt a rush returning, the likes of which he hadn't felt since his last successful drug bust almost three years ago. It made his heartbeat quicken, his throat run dry and caused a serious bout of insomnia. He loved it. He'd missed it. It filled all the places in his soul that had been empty for two years, and he only craved more of it. "Run that name through the computer. Maybe we'll come up aces," he finished at the end of his monologue.

"Michael Garibaldi," she repeated. "Got it. Anything else?"

Sheridan shook his head. "It was quiet. Too quiet for happy hour, even on a weeknight. That's the place, all right." He paused to think. "I won't be in to the station tomorrow."

"But—"

"I won't be in to the station tomorrow," he repeated more firmly, "And I'm not sure when I will be next. I'll keep in touch, but if I made the impression I think I did, they'll start keeping tabs on me. And they'll check my background. I've been through that before; there are a few false entries on my record, coded as such for anybody in the know, but on his end Morden won't know the difference," he added as he finished.

He heard Ivanova sigh. "You're asking me to put a lot of trust in an officer I just met," she told him. "I hope you know what you're doing."

His next words were mostly for himself, under his breath, barely audible to the woman on the other end of the line. "So do I."

* * *

It was four more days before Sheridan got the opening he was looking for. As he watched the stupid-fucking-Daffy Duck cartoons with mild disinterest and slowly pondered his second glass of whiskey, Michael Garibaldi handed him an envelope. He looked up at the bartender with raised eyebrows. "Take this to Proxima Park," he was told matter-of-factly. "Do you know where that is?" Sheridan nodded, eyes wide with what he hoped projected as shock – though it was really not shock at all. "Good. Do not open it, do not think about it, do not consider what might be in it. Just take it to the park. At exactly 8:00, a man in a blue baseball cap will meet you under the big oak tree. He'll ask you whether it's going to rain tonight. You tell him you don't think so, and then you give him this envelope. He'll give you one back. You bring me that envelope back here right away. You will not make any stops on that trip, you will not open _that_ envelope either, and you will not talk to anyone other than the man in the blue baseball cap. Do you understand?" Again, Sheridan nodded. "Good." And then Garibaldi turned back to his cartoon, leaving Sheridan to carry out his very first run.

As he pushed himself off the barstool and sauntered out the door, envelope in hand, he couldn't hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth or stop the rush of adrenaline that shot through his bloodstream.

He was in.


	4. Chapter 3: In the Shadow of Z'ha'dum

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Vocabulary for this chapter:** Jump. New gang members are intiated in one of an assortment of different ways; a "jump" is the most common. Being "jumped in" means fighting established gang members for a predetermined period of time, allowing oneself to be beaten and showing the extent to which you can fight back. Sheridan's initiation is vague but probably most closely resembles being "circled in" - a specific kind of jump, where the new recruit must fight his way through the center of a circle of gang members.

**Chapter 3 – In the Shadow of Z'ha'dum**

For three weeks, it went on like this. Every two or three days, Garibaldi would hand him an envelope or a package and give him verbal instructions on what to do with it. He was a runner; not explicitly a member of the gang – he hadn't been jumped in yet – but his loyalty, among other things, was being tested. He did what he was told, no questions, and though he certainly considered what he might be carrying, he never peeked, nor did he issue instructions to Ivanova to take down himself or his contact, because he suspected somewhere in here was where Sinclair had screwed up. He'd never gotten very far inside, and this was why. He hadn't passed the test.

Sheridan was good at tests. He liked tests. He didn't like to think about it while he was actually _taking_ the tests, because if he did, his adrenaline rush would be replaced by an awful sinking feeling at the knowledge of what he might be allowing to happen. He knew he was carrying money sometimes; other times, he was reasonably certain it was drugs; other times he simply had no idea. And he knew he was being watched, always watched, because there were lookouts – he didn't know who they were, but he had every reason to believe they didn't trust him any further than they could throw him, and thus far his only contact had been Garibaldi, and only over the bar.

They'd been in his apartment, though. He'd come home one day not long after his first delivery to find the place ransacked. He'd actually let out a little sigh of relief the next time Garibaldi gave him a package. A knowing look passed between them at that point, and Sheridan knew they hadn't found anything in their search to indicate he was anything other than his cover.

Finally, on a rainy Wednesday, it wasn't Garibaldi who handed him the envelope.

It was Morden.

This would be their first meeting, and Sheridan tried his damnedest to keep recognition from registering in his features as the dark-haired man in the Armani suit sat down on the stool next to him. "Just keep drinking your drink," Morden said by way of introduction. He stared straight ahead, only looking at John through his peripherals. Sheridan took a sip in acknowledgement, trying to slow his heartbeat. "You've been doing some running for me, and by all accounts you do it almost like you've done it before. Have you?" Sheridan shook his head, sipped at his whiskey again, his eyes still focused straight ahead. "Good. I understand you lost your wife a couple of years ago, and you'd like to see those responsible pay the price. And," Morden continued, and now John noticed he had his own drink, from which he took a casual sip, "You wouldn't mind roasting a little bacon either, if you get my meaning."

"Who are you?" Sheridan let the question slip out as he turned his head to face Morden head-on for the first time.

Morden seemed to have a permanent smile plastered on his face. It wasn't a friendly smile by any means; John felt like he was being examined as a venomous snake might examine a creature just barely too large to swallow whole. "Now that's… really not important. What matters is that you are John Sheridan, and you want a few things – revenge, namely, for the death of your wife. I think we can work out a mutually beneficial relationship by way of which you can get that revenge."

"And what will you get out of it?"

"A good soldier." Morden took another sip from his drink. "You're already doing it, and as I said, you're doing a damn good job. You follow instructions well. So I'd like to bump it up a notch, and if it goes well, I will start giving you the means to get what you want. You keep scratching my back, I'll keep scratching yours. But first, I need to know how much it means to you."

"She was my whole life. How much does your life mean to you?" He knew there was real emotion in his tone at those words. This much, at least, was true.

Morden laughed softly and looked away from John for a moment, studying the scratchings in the wood of the bar. When he faced John again, the oily smile was gone. "Let's cut the crap, Sheridan. You've got to have some questions about all those things you've been doing that we told you not to ask questions about. Now I'm going to answer those questions. Yes, you've been running money and drugs and weapons around Babylon proper and its outlying communities, helping to arm my associates and facilitate a turf war."

"Who are these… associates?" John asked carefully.

"You've been in Babylon long enough now, Sheridan. Don't play me for stupid. You've heard of the Shadows?" John nodded. "Well… I'm the Shadow Man. Pleased to meet you." He extended a hand and John shook it loosely. "If you're in, I think you'd be a great asset. We'll take care of you. You'll get what you want out of the deal, believe me. But you've gotta be in all the way."

Sheridan raised his eyebrows in mild challenge of this statement. "Or?"

"Or…" Sheridan heard a quiet scrape of metal and looked down. Visible only because it glinted in the dim lighting of the room, Morden had extended a pocket knife, blade jutted ever so slightly toward John's torso. "This bullshit ends right now." And quick as a wink the knife was gone and Morden's sly grin had returned. "But I'd hardly want you to think I'm forcing you into anything. You've got 24 hours. Be here tomorrow, 6 p.m. sharp. If you're not here, we'll come looking for you. I know that you know we've been to your place, so if the answer is no, John Sheridan, I'd advise you to get the hell out of Epsilon County by the time that happens." Now Morden nodded his chin toward the envelope on the bar. "Either way, this is your last run. You know the drill by now. Blue bandana. Go."

Morden was gone by the time Sheridan looked up to question him.

* * *

"No."

John was already prepping for tomorrow night. After tomorrow, he suspected he wouldn't be back to this apartment for some time, and he wanted to make sure anything Ivanova and the others might need while communications were cut off could be found easily by them and not so easily by others. It was a tougher task than he'd anticipated, and now Ivanova was on his phone, giving him bullshit. "What do you mean _no_?"

"I mean no. N-O. One syllable, two letters, the opposite of 'yes'. You can't do it, Captain. I won't authorize it. I'm telling you there has to be another way, a safer way."

"And I'm telling you there isn't. I'll be fine."

"Sinclair –"

"Sinclair didn't pass the test," Sheridan cut her off. "He messed up early. They kept him around while he was still useful and not a threat, and when one or both of those didn't apply anymore, they threw him away."

"And how do you know that's not _exactly_ what you're walking into?"

For the first time, Sheridan hesitated. He was cleaning his gun. It was relaxing, helped to squelch the adrenaline, center him on where he was and exactly what he was about to do. It also kept his mind off of drinking, which was what he really would've preferred to be doing right now. "I don't. Not for sure. But we've got nothing else. You said Garibaldi's rap sheet came back clean."

"As a whistle," the commander admitted. "Nothing on the bar, either. Not so much as a lapse in rent payments."

"Then this is the only way." He paused for a moment. It was an interesting feeling, the way his mind was divided. Part of him – a big part of him – was looking forward to this. It gave him a great rush, put him back in a game he'd missed for two long years, allowed him to completely bury himself in his work and forget how much he missed his wife, even helped him forget, sometimes, how much he wanted to just drink until he didn't feel anything anymore. The rest of him knew he was walking the thin blue line awfully tight – that if Morden really _did_ know who'd taken Anna, who'd killed her, he might end up actually carrying through with his revenge. He'd be fighting against that every day. "They're definitely stockpiling for a big confrontation with the Vorlons, I just have no idea when or where. I'm not even entirely sure a date's been sent."

"You need to be out before then. If you're not, you won't survive it."

He sighed, a noncommittal answer to her comment. "Speaking of the Vorlons. I saw the news."

"That makes five this week. They're making their stand as well." Ivanova was quiet for a long moment. "Whatever you're going to do, Sheridan, you get in there, you do it, and you get out. Because if you go down at Z'ha'dum, nobody's going to come in after you."

"I know."

"OK then." Another lengthy pause. Sheridan could hear the scrape of her pen on paper over the phone and he knew she was signing off on his orders. There was no turning back now. "Sheridan."

"Mmm?"

"An old friend once said to me… 'May God stand between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk.'" Briefly, they both thought of Sinclair. "Be careful."

"Aye, Commander. Thank you."

As he ended the call, Sheridan stood and turned a slow circle in his new apartment. All files tying him to his real life, and to this case, were hidden beneath the floorboards under his bed. The apartment was relatively clean; he didn't want to come back to a mess. The fridge was empty of anything that might spoil, but various non-perishable food items were stashed here and there, giving the whisper of an illusion that he would one day return to occupy this space.

Only one thing remained.

With a sigh, he walked slowly to his bedroom. From the top shelf of his closet, he pulled a small, nondescript box and lifted the lid. There were three objects inside: His badge, a framed picture of Anna… and his wedding band. He lifted each in turn, caressed it gently, gave it a moment of thought. And then he lifted them all from the box and crawled beneath his bed to secure them in the floorboards as well, not knowing when, or if, he'd return to unearth them again.

* * *

Morden paced before his Board – the Shadow Cabinet, he called them – in a dimly lit room with no windows. This was where Important Business was dealt with; usually they met here to discuss planned offenses, counterstrikes, strategy – but tonight, John Sheridan was on the docket. Morden was smart and he knew Sheridan was smart, too, so he wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page. There was no room for error here.

"Sheridan comes in tomorrow," he was saying. "Six o'clock. When he's in, when it's over, I want him kept down here for recovery. I'll have the girls attend to him, but Garibaldi – I suspect you'll be the only apothecary he's looking for after a day or two. That's fine. I'm not ready to move him up just yet."

"Cut the crap, Morden." This came from the one known as Bester, who was stretched across an old leather couch, feet propped up on one end and hands folded behind his head. He fit because he was shorter than Morden liked in his soldiers – but he was among the most cold and calculating killers ever to walk in the Shadows. "We know all this already. What's this _really_ all about?"

"John Sheridan is heartbroken and hell-bent on revenge for the death of his wife. I have told him in no uncertain terms that I can give him that if he'll scratch our backs. And I know I can make good on that, because I know without a doubt who killed her… because it was me." He looked around at the other three men in the room. There were raised eyebrows but no words. "_That_ information doesn't leave this room. From this point forward and for as long as I am alive, the truth as it will be known is that the _Vorlons_ are responsible for Anna Sheridan's kidnapping and untimely demise." Nods in response. Again, a look at each of them, deep in the eyes. "What I want is someone who will function without question or hesitation in our vacant Chief Enforcer position. I think John Sheridan, given his background and his… motivation… is just the right man for that job, but that would put him on this board. That means this discussion never happened. Questions?"

"When things get dicey, don't you think he'll figure it out?" This question from Wade. Wade was a holdover from Morden's predecessor; he'd never liked the man. But he laundered money better than anybody Morden had ever met, so he stayed.

"If he does, we take him out. It's that simple. You forget the first rule of everything around here, Wade: deep down, nobody trusts anybody. You know that as well as I do." He leaned in close to make a point. "Everyone under me is here because they are useful and they serve a purpose. When you stop being useful, _Wade_, you disappear. That goes for Sheridan, that goes for you, and that goes for anybody whose shirt I decide I don't like, who chews too loud or who is simply in my way. Understood?" Wade scowled at his leader but offered a curt nod. "Good." Morden plastered his smile back in place. "Tomorrow. Six o'clock. Be here, gentlemen; you won't want to miss this."

* * *

The thing about being perceived as mindless and invisible – except when it came to the performance of certain tasks – was that the men felt free to speak about whatever they wished without first taking note of her whereabouts. Indeed it was even true that they told her things, things she wasn't supposed to know, when they were riding a good high or taking their pleasure from her body.

The other thing about being perceived as mindless and invisible was the "perceived" part. Delenn was not mindless, not by any stretch of the word, but allowing herself to be seen as such was the biggest reason she was still alive.

Anna Sheridan hadn't understood this.

What Mr. Morden had said was very true – people here survived so long as they were useful. Delenn was smart enough to be useful by pretending to be mindless.

But she wasn't; oh, she wasn't at all. She'd heard everything Mr. Morden had said, but it didn't matter. She'd been here when it happened.

She knew what had happened to Anna. She knew what had happened to others who had simply… disappeared. She had been there at the end of Jeffrey Sinclair's life.

And she knew something else, too. The next night, she was watching John Sheridan as he was led, blindfolded, by Mr. Morden through the door at the back of the bar – the one that blended into the wall so well a person wouldn't know it was there if they didn't know what to look for. She was watching as Mr. Morden led him down the secret passage to where the Shadows built their empire. And she was watching as he was surrounded on all sides, and still he did not flee; she was watching as the beating began, and he made no move to defend himself. Only then, after the first several blows, did she turn away; she didn't need to watch. She'd seen jumps before. She hurried back to her tiny closet of a bedroom, and even from there she could hear his cries of pain.

Delenn knew things; she'd heard things; and she was very smart. Maybe smarter than Mr. Morden. She hoped so, because it seemed that after five long years, her salvation may have finally arrived in the depths of Hell of his own volition, and together they would bring down the Shadows. If, that was, his heart hadn't hardened; _if_ she could find the courage to defy her captor after all these years; _if_ they could accomplish all this before the building war with the Vorlons came to a head.

If.

John Sheridan was the widower of Anna Sheridan, who had once upon a time slept in this very room and told Delenn stories about how her husband, an officer of the law, would come to rescue them. Anna… who had outlived her usefulness long ago.

And there was something else.

John Sheridan was the hazel-eyed man from her dreams.

The yelling and pounding and cries stopped, and she took caution to lie down, to appear to be asleep, to have missed it all.

Less than five minutes passed, five minutes of blissful silence, before her bedroom light was flicked on. Her eyes opened to see the four of them, and as Morden extended his hand and pulled her to her feet, kissed her hard and urged her to her knees, before she let her mind go blank, she gave one final thought to John Sheridan and his gentle hazel eyes and warm smile. When she looked up, what she saw instead were cold, brown eyes – it didn't matter whose eyes they were; she'd see them all tonight – and she comforted herself with the flicker of a thought – _better useful than dead._


	5. Chapter 4: Voices of Authority

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 4 - Voices of Authority**

"Just a reminder, I'll be out late tonight – poker game at Sergeant Allan's."

"Mmmhmm."

Marcus Cole's mouth turned down as he watched his lover absently fill her morning coffee mug and wander into the breakfast nook, eyes scanning the front page of the morning's paper. He followed her and tried again. "Right. So it's Tuesday, so don't forget to put the trash out at the curb." Another non-committal grunt was the only response. "Have I mentioned that my nose is on fire, and that I have 15 wild badgers living in my trousers?"

Now, finally, Susan set down the paper and looked up, giving him a look of complete incredulousness. "What?"

"I'm sorry, would you prefer ferrets?"

Susan's glare burned him, and Marcus wondered if maybe he'd pushed too far. "What I'd prefer is for you to—" She stopped, shook her head, picked the paper back up.

"To what?" Now he softened and approached her, arms coming around her from behind. When he spoke again, it was a soft whisper. "I know you're worried about him."

Susan shook her head stubbornly. "I am not."

"Yes, you are. It's been three weeks now since you last heard from Sheridan, and I don't care how much you insist he can take care of himself, and you don't like him anyway, and if he gets killed it's his own bloody fault—" He came around and crouched in front of her, gently taking the paper from her hands and laying it aside. "He's an officer under your command, and he might be in trouble, and you're worried about him."

She gave him a resigned smile. "Maybe."

"And that's OK."

"If anything happens to him – it's my fault."

"It's part of your job," Marcus offered, tone still soft but matter-of-fact. "The fact that you care just proves that you're human."

Susan shook her head angrily. "I knew he was trouble from the moment he showed up." She blinked back tears. Marcus saw them but knew enough to shut his yap about it. As far as he and the rest of the world were concerned, Susan Ivanova _did not cry_. "I should never have approved this, not after—" she cut herself short of the name.

"After Jeff?" He offered. "Susan. That wasn't your fault."

"No? Then whose goddamn fault was it?" She was crying openly now, angrily brushing away the tears. "Jeffrey Sinclair was a good man. He didn't deserve to die like that."

"No one does."

"And I sent him in there. And now, like a fool, I've let Sheridan do the exact same thing."

Marcus looked down and was silent for a long moment. He'd known Susan and Jeffrey Sinclair had been close; that they may have even been lovers for a time, before Marcus had come into the picture and Sinclair reunited with an old flame. Not only did Ivanova feel she had failed in respect to her job; a personal tie had been severed as well. "You swore to the people of Babylon that you would stop this turf war and bring down the Shadows," he said at last. "Both Sheridan and Sinclair have been instrumental in reaching that goal. It's only been six weeks since Sheridan's first contact, and you already have more than you did after _six months_ with Sinclair. Sheridan got inside, deep inside – something Sinclair could never do." She met his eyes now, and the look there told him he was speaking to her heart. "Jeffrey Sinclair died in service to the people of this city. There is no more honorable way to die."

"And now Sheridan might have gone the same way." She sniffled and opened her mouth to say more but was cut short by the police scanner, blaring an alert from the adjacent den.

"Attention all units, please respond – 10-71 in progress at Proxima Park, repeat, 10-71 in progress. Please respond, Code 2."

"Shooting," Ivanova grumbled as she got to her feet, roughly pulling on her uniform jacket. "Used to be we'd get maybe two a year. Now… it feels like every day." She kissed Marcus's cheek. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." He gave her the bravest smile he could manage.

"I love you."

"Be careful."

"Always." She downed the rest of her coffee and darted out the door.

With her lights flashing and siren blasting, the drive to the park took less than two minutes, and when she arrived, the bullets were still flying. A quick survey, and she blessedly counted no innocents – but blue colors flashed on her right, yellow on her left, and there were at least two bodies on the ground. "Fuck." She ducked back into her cruiser and hastily called for backup.

Sergeant Allan and his partner, quickly followed by three more cruisers, pulled up within seconds, no doubt heeding both the initial call and hers, and the shooting came to an abrupt end on the firing of a final bullet. The yellow colors fled immediately, leaving only the blue of the Shadows behind to disrupt the green-brown ground of the park. Ivanova cocked her gun in their general direction. "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" No response. She edged toward them, weapon held at the ready. "You're all under arrest. Come out with your hands up."

"_Now_," Allan chipped in, coming up beside her and cautiously flanking out to the left. Still no response, and he fired a warning shot at the wall adjacent to their hiding spot. "We have you surrounded. Give it up. There's no way out."

"Says you!" And then Sergeant Allan was on the ground, blood blooming from a single hit to his right shoulder, and three Shadows turned and fled the scene.

Ivanova took off after them on instinct, not thinking, just reacting, and it was rage and adrenaline that had her pulling down a man larger than herself, tackling him into a submissive position, spread eagle and face down on the ground, hands quickly cuffed behind his head. "You have the right - to remain - silent," she quoted haltingly as her catch stopped squirming. "Anything you say can and most definitely _will_ be used against your sorry ass in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, though I doubt it will do you much good, and if you cannot afford one, we will appoint one who will give you all the attention your money is worth. Do you fucking understand these rights –" She had been perched comfortably on the perp's back, and now she got off him and rolled him over, for the first time getting a look at his face. It took her a moment to recognize him. Beneath a scruffy beard, healing scrapes and bruises, and a pretty impressive black eye, was the unmistakable pretty-boy face of Captain John Sheridan.

"Actually," he responded with a swallow and a lick of his lips, and she could feel him trying to get control of his breathing while he smiled to make the joke, "I have some questions."

* * *

"…And now you have to let me go," John finished, giving her a pointed look via the rearview mirror of her cruiser. "Because if you don't, if you hold me for any length of time and then release me, they'll get suspicious. They're smart. They know how the system works and if you hold me too long and just up and let me go, they'll think I squealed and _they will kill me_. So you have two choices. Either you lock me up for a believable length of time before you let me make my one phone call, and somebody pays my bail, or you let me go _right now_."

Ivanova considered the story she'd just been told. He'd spent the better part of two weeks recovering from his jump – successful, she supposed, as he was still alive, but she asked him to spare the details as she considered that he'd said he'd known what he was in for. What kind of psychopath voluntarily gives himself over for a beating? The pretty-faced kind, apparently. Eight days ago, he'd pronounced himself healthy enough to walk and was handed his gun and given a target to take out. Rather than execute the hit, he'd clubbed the poor fellow over the head but good and then called 9-1-1; fired his gun at a dumpster for the "recently fired" effect and swiped the young man's yellow bandana as proof. The day after that, he'd met the Shadow Cabinet for the first time. And now he was here, and she was fucking it up, he said, because this was his audition for a Board position, and he was failing it, big time. "I can't let you go, not yet." She pulled into the station parking lot and parked the cruiser. "You got anything else on the war effort?"

"Nothing. That's why you have to let me go."

She narrowed her eyes and took note of the captain's general demeanor. "You're drunk."

"I'm hung over. There's a difference."

"God-fucking-dammit, Sheridan! You are going to drink yourself right to death over there, literally and-or figuratively, if you don't fucking knock this shit off _right now_."

He didn't respond.

"I mean it. Lay off the alcohol and – for God's sakes, are you doing anything else?"

"Don't. Ask."

She muttered several expletives under her breath.

"Let me go."

"Give me something. Names. Offenses. Anything."

He sighed heavily, lolled his head around. "Bester," he said finally. "Last name. First name Al, probably Alfred. Real stone-cold son of a bitch."

Ivanova wrote that down. "I'll run it through the system, see what comes up. You got a headcount? What can you tell me about the structure?"

"I've counted at least 50 unique faces, though most of them are small-time – runners, lookouts, street soldiers. They'll be on the front lines if this comes to a head. Aside from our Shadow Man Morden, the advisory board has four positions of which three are currently occupied – Garibaldi, this Bester guy and Wade… somebody. I don't have a last name, but cross reference with the others, maybe you'll get something. The open position is the Chief Enforcer – the Warlord. They want me for that. Or they did, until today. I don't know if…" He'd been speaking fairly quickly; now he slowed down a bit, let his voice trail off.

"What's that entail, exactly?"

Sheridan bit his lip, hesitating on his response. "Strategic coordination. Tactical planning. And if I don't get out in time, they'll be looking at me to hold our territory and coordinate the big fight."

"That could be to our advantage, don't you think?"

"I do think. But that's _if_ I can manage to orchestrate it as such that they won't know I'm setting them up. I… haven't figured out how to do that yet."

She softened at his admission. "What's it like down there?"

He was quiet again for a long moment, and she sensed him softening as well. "Dark," he said finally. "A little bit like hell, a little bit like…" He shrugged. "Weird, too. There are other things going on, other things I guess I'm not worthy of yet. I don't know. I don't like it. There's these… girls…"

"Innocents?"

"I don't know. I just don't know. Two of them took care of me while I was hurt. They looked OK, well cared for, not badly bruised or malnourished, but… young. And there's another one. I've seen her, but she's different from the others. I can't explain it. She seems almost… afraid of her own shadow."

"Interesting choice of words."

Sheridan nodded. "And now you have to let me go."

Ivanova paused, making eye contact with him in the mirror again. "Fine. But –" she raised pointed eyebrows at him – "Now that I know you're alive, no more of this dropping-off-the-planet bullshit. I want message drops at least once a week. And lay off the drinking and—whatever else."

"Fine."

"Fine." She exited her driver's side door and came around to the back, where she opened the door for him and used a key to release his handcuffs.

Freed, he rubbed at his wrists. "Those things hurt, you know."

"Sorry. Next time out I'll be sure to bring my pink fuzzy ones from home."

"Ugh. Too much."

"You asked for it." She looked him in the eyes one last time and couldn't help thinking it – he certainly looked the part. This was going too well to be true.

"Oh. I almost forgot."

"Hmm?"

"They'll ask how I got away. Sorry." And he brought his hands together and clubbed her with two fists at the back of her skull, bringing her down in an unconscious heap. "Really sorry," he said again, and then took off in a jog away from the station, knowing she'd be safe in the shade of her cruiser until someone else came outside.

* * *

The return to Z'ha'dum was anything but a hero's welcome. He was grilled for two hours as Morden paced in front of him, seething, clutching his baby glock, and Sheridan knew if he said one wrong word, he'd find out exactly what that glock felt like pressed against his temple – about two seconds before he ceased to feel anything at all, ever again. "_How did this happen_?"

"It was an open park. BPD is not run by idiots. They were bound to send in the troops when we endangered innocents."

"I wasn't asking you, you fuck." More pacing accompanied this growl. Sheridan swallowed hard, mind racing, and found himself wishing like hell he hadn't snorted that line with Garibaldi before the job this morning. "And you're wrong. We control the perimeter at Proxima Park. It's not open. It's _ours_."

_Maps say differently_, John thought, but he wisely kept this opinion to himself.

"Tell me again. They cuffed you, read you your rights, and took you to the station."

"Yes."

"And then you just got away? Just like that?"

"A club to the back of the head." He clasped his fists and demonstrated on the thin air. "And a lock pick." He unearthed a lock pick from the pocket of his jeans. "It's not rocket science."

"Who was the arresting officer?"

Sheridan hesitated. He did not want to drop names. This could end very, very badly if he dropped names. But Ivanova was too prominent in Babylon for him not to recognize her on sight. And he knew, he just _knew_, that if he said he didn't know, Morden would know he was lying. He sighed. "Commander Ivanova."

"That bitch," Morden spat. "You know, I think I'd like to see her come down a peg. Or two. Or as many pegs as it takes to get her on her knees, gagging on my cock. You get what I'm saying, Sheridan?" Morden considered this for a moment. "You probably haven't had any in awhile, have you?"

"I do OK."

Morden shook his head. "But not since you came here." He considered this some more. "Tell you what. As much as that fantasy appeals to me, I'd much rather have her gone. She's been a thorn in my side long enough, and this bullshit today is the last straw. So! You, my friend, are very lucky. You've just earned yourself a chance at redemption." He twirled the gun he held now, spinning it absently on one finger, and then handed it to Sheridan with a pointed look. "Take her out, and I will reward you quite handsomely. Fail…" He took the glock back and pressed it less-than-gently square between Sheridan's eyes. "And you die instead. Either way, there will be blood shed by the time the sun sets in three days. Understood?"

"Yes," he breathed, and the gun was gone from his forehead. He couldn't help but let out a small exhale in relief.

"Good." There was a shuffle past the door to the small, nondescript room in which this conversation had taken place. Both men looked up. Sheridan saw a passing Shadow; Morden saw more. "Ah. Speaking of handsome rewards." He strode to the door in two large steps and reached out with one hand, pulling someone – a young woman – in front of him.

Sheridan's eyes focused on her and he tried with all his might to keep a cold look about him as he took her in, but he wasn't sure if he was succeeding. This was the other girl, the one he'd told Ivanova about. He hadn't gotten a good look at her until now. She was barely clothed, wearing a thin white shift. The outline of her body was easily visible through the fabric, and he suspected this was no accident. In some respects she looked well cared for, but he'd been a cop long enough to know an abuse victim when he saw one, and right now the sirens were blaring in his head.

There was no denying one thing, though: She was Morden's prize possession, and he made sure she presented as such. She was beautiful.

"This is Delenn. She's… my… pet," Morden finally pronounced, settling on this as a valid descriptor of their relationship. Delenn flinched as the Shadow Man's hand snaked around her back to her hip and clamped down hard. "Delenn, this is Sheridan. Say hello, Delenn."

Hesitantly, she lifted her eyes to meet his. When they finally met, he thought just for a second that he saw a flicker of a smile on her face. "Hello." And although they'd never met before, her grey eyes sparkled at him and he felt a tug at his heart, a flicker of an emotion he hadn't felt in years, something he'd sworn he would never feel again. It was as if he had no control; as if his emotions were acting without his knowledge or say-so. He bit back a smile; no, this was not the right time for the kind of smile he wanted to give.

But Morden caught it; Morden was among the most perceptive men John had ever met. He laughed from deep in his throat and pulled Delenn tighter to him. "Your reward," he said simply, reaching with his free hand to brush a stray lock of hair off of Delenn's face. God_damn_ if that didn't make her more beautiful still. He turned and began to lead Delenn out of the room, but on the threshold they paused just a moment, and Morden looked back over his shoulder. "But not without proof." And then they were gone, and John was left dumbstruck, betrayed by his own emotions, and his mind racing – this woman was… she was…

She was an innocent, he reminded himself, and he would do nothing to her that she did not wish to do. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand; namely, what to do about Ivanova, and how to get Morden to give him information on Anna's killer, and most importantly, how to get down off this high so that he could do something about all of the shit that had just fallen from the heavens onto his loudly pounding head.


	6. Chapter 5: Point of No Return

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 5 - Point of No Return**

It was a strange thing to drop a coded message that would spell out for its recipient "I have to kill you." John felt bad about it. He really did. And he felt backed into a corner as well, because despite a very long, quiet day after his "escape" from Ivanova and his confrontation with Morden, he was no closer to figuring out how to get out of this one with both his and Ivanova's heads still in tact.

The other thing – that is, the thing other than saving his own skin – that had him on edge was the woman he'd met. Delenn. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. She looked so… fragile… like she'd break if you squeezed her too tight. And yet, he reflected, she must have been stronger than she looked. Given Morden's offer to him, he couldn't bear to think what she might go through on a daily basis, what her life might be like. It made his heart hurt.

And when his heart hurt, it reminded him that he had feelings. He was, he reflected, OK with acknowledging that – except that right now it was 4 a.m. and he was mindlessly wandering the catacombs of the Shadows' underground lair, a place where everyone's blood ran cold, everyone was emotionless, hardened, unfeeling.

He came to an empty room – it contained a television, a couch and a rocking recliner, and he sank down into the recliner without turning on the light. He'd come down into the Shadows to do a job. He'd come here with the guise of a man seeking revenge. He'd come here to save a city, and to find redemption for himself, and it was important enough to him that he was willing to die for it. But what if…

He closed his eyes and saw Delenn's face again. What if he could find his redemption not through a grand act of revenge, not through saving a whole city, but through the rescue of one person, out of the darkness – one lost soul, pulled from danger, pulled from harm? Would he be recognized for that, even if he did not survive it? He didn't know. He wasn't sure it mattered.

"You're up early."

John started, nearly jumping out of his skin at the voice. His eyes focused on Garibaldi, who leaned casually against the door frame in the darkness. He responded with a shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"You? There hasn't been a day since you got here that you haven't passed out from overindulgence." The blue-eyed man gave a short laugh as he entered the room and sauntered over to the couch. He studied the old black leather for a moment before sinking down on it. "Penny for your thoughts?"

John rubbed absently at the scruffy goatee he'd been growing since his jump-in. "I met Delenn yesterday."

Now the bald man laughed and flashed him a knowing grin, visible in the low light of the room. "You mean you met Delenn, or you uh… _met_ Delenn?"

"What's her story?"

"She swallows."

Inside, John's stomach rolled; outwardly, he smiled, slow and emotionless. "Good to know. But – no. I mean, where did she come from?"

Garibaldi shook his head. "Who _cares_?" Behind his words was the bigger question – _Why do_ you _care?_ There was just enough of an edge there that John knew he was treading on dangerous territory. He backed off.

"And the other girls, the ones who took care of me?"

"Ah. Lyta and Talia. Here in the Shadows, my friend, you may have noticed that female members are few and far between. Those two… they're family of Bester. He's got them wrapped around his little finger so tight they'll follow him anywhere, do anything he asks. So when he came… so did they."

"And do they swallow too?"

"Sometimes. If you ask nicely." The edge was gone from his voice, the relaxed tone returning. "But if you've been given the keys to Delenn's kingdom, that's easier. She knows her place. Won't give you any guff. Take my advice and take the easier path."

John wasn't smiling. He hoped this didn't draw too much attention. "Sometimes I like a challenge," he replied.

"So you're looking forward to your meeting with the esteemed Commander Ivanova, then."

John hesitated longer than he should have. To make up for it, he pulled his 9mm out of the waist of his jeans, cocked it, pointed it forward and mimed pulling the trigger.

"That how you're gonna do it?"

"It's clean. Quick."

"She doesn't deserve that mercy. You ought to know that." Garibaldi stood up, shooting John one last look as he headed for the door. "Murder sits better on a good night's sleep," he encouraged.

"Yeah, fine." John watched him go, then tilted his head back, kicked out his feet in the recliner and closed his eyes. Sleep. Right.

Garibaldi, meanwhile, walked slowly but purposefully down the dark hallway until he reached the back of the lair. Morden's quarters were larger than the others and had an actual door that closed _and_ locked – one of the few. Garibaldi grasped the handle and turned it – it wasn't locked tonight. He barged in, not bothering to knock. "I'm blowing the horn on Sheridan," he said by way of greeting as he ventured into the dark quarters. "He's – Jesus Christ, Morden. You're a nympho, you know that?" He waited while his leader pushed a nameless blonde aside and sat up, draping a sheet over his lap as a courtesy.

"I'm sampling the merchandise. And should I have expected you to come barging in here at four in the morning, wailing about how the new guy's about to show you up?" Morden asked, not bothering at all to disguise the annoyed look on his face. "Don't get your panties all in a twist, Garibaldi. Sheridan'll do the job."

"I'm not so sure. He's… He's just different since he got back." Garibaldi paced restlessly for a long moment. "I smell bacon," he said at last.

"Don't give me that. _You_ ran his background check. You fucking _told_ me he's got a record, he's done time, and he didn't exactly run his unit by the book in Minbar, even before his wife met her… unfortunate end."

"I know, I know. It's… it's just… he's different."

"OK, fine. Look. Starting tomorrow, we'll sequester him here until he's ready to make the hit. When he goes out for the job, you tail him. If he does it, we have nothing else to talk about. If not—" Morden shrugged and made a gun firing motion to his temple using his thumb and forefinger. Then he gave Garibaldi the annoyed look again. "OK? Now go away. I'm busy."

"Fine." Garibaldi turned and stalked out of the room. Before pulling the door closed behind him, he paused to look back at Morden and his visitor. "When's this one move out?"

Morden let out a dejected sigh as he strolled over to his dresser, considered for a moment and finally selected the 9mm. "She doesn't want to play." He gave Garibaldi an overemphasized pout for a full two seconds before turning the same face on the girl. She met it with terrified blue eyes and at that, Morden's lower lip retracted and both of them slid up into a thin smile. He relished in the girl's terror a moment longer, watched her start to scramble, and let her get up from the bed just enough that her blood wouldn't mess up his sheets before he pulled the trigger. The quiet night was shattered for a split second by a single, deafening shot – right to the heart, and the girl crumpled to a motionless heap on the floor.

Morden lowered his trigger arm and let a sad smile slide into place as he faced Garibaldi with a helpless shrug. "Pity. Take care of her for me, huh?"

"In the morning."

Still riding the high from his kill, Morden lifted the gun again, this time turning it on Garibaldi, the smile disappearing and his head tilting slowly to the side. "Now," he challenged.

Garibaldi hesitated only a beat. "Fine. Now." He moved forward and lifted the nameless girl's lifeless body over his shoulder. As he stepped into the hall on his exit, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow, someone retreating just paces ahead of him, but he checked the adjacent doorways and there was no one around. Sheridan appeared to have succumbed to sleep in the recliner. With a satisfied nod, Garibaldi continued down the hall and around the corner to the back exit, swinging by to pick up Bester on his way. Together the two of them would drive this body to the wooded area at the edge of town and bury her in a shallow grave.

Just like all the others.

His mind on the task ahead, he did not see Delenn, pressed up against the wall of their conference room, and he did not see her slip back down the hall toward Sheridan.

* * *

John was not sleeping. He was laying back in the recliner, eyes closed, and he was sincerely creeped out because he could feel someone watching him. _Friend or foe?_ He wondered for just a moment before his senses reminded him – _idiot. You have no friends down here._

If there was going to be a fight, John was glad for two things: His gun was loaded, and he was sober. He slowly grasped his gun with his left hand while opening one eye in the general direction of the room's entrance, ready to draw his weapon if necessary.

It _wasn't_ necessary. Leaning against the wall, just inside the curtain of black beads that marked the curved-arch entrance to this little den, was the woman he'd met earlier. Delenn.

She wasn't any more clothed than when he'd first met her, and she looked like an injured animal, hoping for an ally but ready to bolt at a moment's notice if she was wrong. Slowly, he released the grip on his weapon and sat up to look at her. He knew concern and care was showing through in his face; he didn't care. But he didn't speak, either; he was afraid someone would hear him, and he was equally afraid that she would be scared away by any sudden sound. Instead he just looked at her.

And she looked at him.

And in the darkness, their eyes connected. "You're John Sheridan," she said quietly.

She had an accent he couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe? _God, where did you come from?_ But all he said was, "Yes." His voice was barely audible, but in his head, in the total stillness of this predawn meeting that he had a feeling was no accident, it sounded booming loud.

"Be careful, John Sheridan. The Shadows move… when you're not looking at them."

She had a way about her… she was trying very hard to tell him something, but she'd been here a long time, a _very_ long time, and she probably knew these walls were not soundproof. "I… I don't…" He sat up further, shook his head. Was he high? Was she an illusion? He didn't think so.

_God_, he thought. _Ivanova was right. No more of that shit._

She stepped tentatively closer to him, hugging her arms across her middle – for modesty or warmth, he couldn't be sure which, and before he could stop himself he was thinking – _I'd take her in my arms to give her either – or both._

She came close enough, just barely close enough, to touch – and he reached out to do so. It looked like she might take his hand, but instead, she slipped him a folded piece of paper. A knowing look, right in his eyes, straight to his soul, and then she was dropping his hand and ducking out of the room, the beaded curtain rattling in her wake.

Dumbfounded, he opened the note.

_You've been sequestered. They are watching you. _

With a frustrated scowl, he crumpled the note into a ball and raised his arm to throw it against the wall – and then, on a thought, he ate it instead. He chewed slowly, trying not to upchuck, head tilted back and eyes closed in defeat. How do you orchestrate a fake hit when you can't make contact with your target? How do you pull it off if someone's going to be there to make sure it's done for real? He had no idea. He'd never felt so backed into a corner.

_A drink would make it better._

No, he reasoned, a drink would _not_ make it better. A drink would make it worse. He'd gone down here, gone through all this, because he wanted to prove he could still be a good cop. He wanted to prove he could do this and not fuck it up. And he finally understood that if he was going to do that, he had to be the person he had been before he crawled into the bottle. He couldn't just limp along; he couldn't fake it; he had to be that person again for real, for good. It was now or never.

* * *

Garibaldi stayed about thirty paces behind Sheridan as the other man staked out his target. Commander Ivanova lived in a pretty nice neighborhood, he reflected. She obviously did OK for herself. Maybe they could keep her death out of the news reports and put her place to good use. It was a garden-level apartment in a four-story brownstone, and by all accounts it would make a great place for the girls to stay, if nothing else. But – no. This news, this death, needed to be public – the city of Babylon, not to mention the thrice-damned Vorlons, needed a reminder of who was in charge.

It was about two hours after sunset, and the streets were lit only by streetlamps – this made it easier for Garibaldi to find cover but more difficult to get a good view of what was going on. He managed to find a place around the trunk of a well-established oak tree where he had a good view of the door. He watched as Sheridan, dressed in a dark 3-piece suit, hair gelled and spiked and face clean-shaven except for that stupid-ass goatee he'd decided to keep after his initiation, stepped up and rang the bell. There was a long pause, long enough that Garibaldi thought maybe no one was home – but then the door cracked open and Commander Ivanova stepped out.

She was hot, Garibaldi reflected, and she was in a bathrobe, which made it all the better. _Why are we killing her again?_ He wondered absently. _Why can't we just use her?_ He didn't have time to think further about it. The stillness of the night was broken by three quick, calculated shots. Somewhere in there was a stifled cry of pain, and then Ivanova crumpled to the ground. Sheridan tucked his 9mm back into the holster hidden inside his suit jacket, turned and walked briskly away from the body.

"Such a waste. Pity," Garibaldi muttered to himself, and then before Sheridan reached his hiding place, he ducked into the shadows and headed a different way back to Z'ha'dum.

* * *

"It's done."

"Proof?"

"Turn on the news and talk to your sorry excuse for a street coordinator," Sheridan huffed as he continued the brisk pace that had carried him all the way here from Ivanova's, fueled by adrenaline and nothing else and _God_, he'd forgotten what it felt like to feel so alive. He yanked off his suit jacket as he came down the stairs into the lair and turned his gun over to Morden for examination as he continued ranting. "He's damn lucky I wasn't a Vorlon or a pig or he'd be dead or in prison by now." Now he stopped walking and turned quickly, raising his eyebrows as Morden finished checking out the weapon. "Satisfied?"

"Recently fired. Three bullets. Bit much, don't you think?"

"I wanted to make sure it was done," he responded gruffly. "Now I've had enough of this little song-and-dance. I just took out the goddamn commander of the fucking Babylon PD and I think I've earned a number of things."

"And I promised you a reward. I keep my promises." Morden smiled smoothly. "I like my Board members to be happy."

Sheridan nodded, pleased. "That's a start. The girl, and the promotion. But I want more. You promised me that if I did your dirty work, you'd help me get revenge on my wife's killers. I want to know what you know. Now."

There was a long silence. By now they'd made enough raucous to draw the attention of Wade, Bester, and several lower-level gang members, who were watching television nearby. Morden studied Sheridan, rubbing slowly and thoughtfully at his chin. "First," he said, tone dangerously close to a growl, "I give the orders around here. Don't go thinking that just because you took down one bitch-ass lady cop tonight that makes you some kind of Starkiller. You've made an impression; you'll make a great Chief Enforcer, but you do what I tell you, when I tell you, how I tell you from now on or you won't live to have this conversation a second time. Understood?" Sheridan swallowed hard, nodded; averted his eyes slightly in submission. "Good. Second. You'll get your revenge, Sheridan, don't worry about that. Your new position will serve you well in that. We're building up to a big war with the Vorlons, and that's where you'll get your chance. Because, my dear, drunken, broken-hearted friend - the Vorlons killed your wife."

John's heart had been racing, threatening to pound its way out of his chest – but on these words it played a different beat, slowing almost to a stop and sinking into his gut. He processed this information carefully. "How do you know that?" He asked. "How do I know you're not just using me, using my anger to get what you want?"

"You don't. You'll have to take my word for it. In addition to money and drugs and weapons, there's another trade that comes in and out of here – and the Vorlons, they play the same game. They tried to sell your wife into our empire in exchange for a coke run that went sour. We said no. They had no further use for her, and she was a feisty liability… I assume they disposed of her. It's what I'd do." Morden was staring into his eyes now, unsmiling, cold and unreadable. John still had no idea if what he was hearing was the truth, but it certainly made sense.

Inwardly his emotions were a mess. His mind was screaming_… I'm so sorry._ _God, Anna, I'm so sorry_… and at the same time, he was ecstatic to have uncovered the rest of what went on down here, the parts he'd been kept out of until now. The hardest part was that all of this, all of the pain and regret and anger, all of the excitement, had to stay bottled up. He clenched it all down with a hard swallow. "When do we take them down?"

"Now, just… hold your horses there, Trigger. We're not quite ready. Don't worry; you'll know when it's time. For now… you've done a great service to this organization. I know you're still riding the rush, and you have every right to relax and celebrate this kill. You can even use my room. Delenn will be there waiting for you." He clapped John hard on the shoulder, giving him a giant Cheshire grin. "Have fun," he whispered in John's ear, and then he moved over to join the others who were engrossed in a late-season Dodgers game.

John didn't even try to catch the score as he moved out of the main living room and toward the quarters at the back of the lair.


	7. Chapter 6: Interludes and Examinations

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 6 – Interludes and Examinations**

Delenn was curled up on the king-size bed, knees drawn tight to her chest, hair spread over a dark blue pillow case. She was facing away from the door when John stepped inside, turned on the light and closed the door tightly behind him. She flinched as he turned the lock and secured it with a deafening _click_.

Wordlessly, he walked to the bed and sat down on the edge opposite her. She still did not look at him, and he could tell, though she was covered by a sheet and a thin blanket, that her entire body was tense. She was terrified. Gently, he reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder.

She jerked away from him, drawing in a sharp breath, and if possible she tensed even more.

John sighed. "Hey," he said gently. Still no word from her. He withdrew his hand. "Thank you. For the warning. I…" He shook his head as she tried to pull further away from him. By now she was almost falling off the other side of the bed. "I'm… not going to do… that," he said slowly. "You must know that, if you've figured out… if you know that I'm…" He sighed. "Look, I… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what you've gone through. I can't bear to think… how long have you been here?"

"Five years." He barely heard her.

_Five years._ "Five years? Of…" He couldn't finish the sentence. It was too revolting to consider, much less say aloud.

"It is the means by which I am still alive." She was speaking louder now, but there were tears in her voice. He wanted so badly to comfort her.

"I—" He shook his head, unsure of where to go with his next words. He was not a stranger to victims, but he _was_ a stranger to victim therapy.

Then she was facing him, studying him intently through red, swollen eyes. "What do you want?" she whispered. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you—you said you knew," he whispered back, stretching out on the bed beside her, bringing their faces close together to keep their tones as low as possible. "I'm John Sheridan."

"But are you really a Shadow of the man you used to be? Are you a… a…"

He turned away. He wasn't willing to risk it, not now, not after he was finally all the way inside. "I'm the kind of Shadow that a candle flame makes," he found himself responding. He reached out a hand to move a stray lock of hair from her face, mirroring the gesture he'd seen Morden use – but she didn't pull away. She let him touch her face. "Don't be afraid."

"You indulge quite readily. You drink, you…" She sniffled, shrugged against the mattress. "I assumed you had hardened, that you were not…" now her voice drifted off and he was left in confusion. _Not what?_

"Not anymore. I swear, no more. I can't, not if my life means anything to me. Not if your life—"

"You have to get me out of here." Now she was begging, crying softly, pleading with him as she grasped his shirt collar. "I know how to stop them, I know what to do, but I—I can't—"

"What do you know? How much do you know?" Now he was interested, very interested. She'd been here a long time, longer than some of the men. He had never considered, once she opened up, how much knowledge she might have. She had been a witness to it all.

"I know… everything."

Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. "It's too quiet in there! I'm coming in if I don't hear some indication of progress, Sheridan. _Get on that shit_ or let a real man do the job."

John stripped down to his boxers and climbed on top of her, giving a feigned moan for Morden's benefit. There was nothing fake about Delenn's yelp that followed as he ground his pelvis against hers. "Sorry," he whispered in her ear. "I'm really sorry." She cried out again. He clapped his hands together near her ear to make a realistic slapping sound – and the loudness of it caused her to cry out yet again. And then, in only his boxers, he pulled back the covers, leaving her exposed, and strode angrily to the door. He jerked it open and narrowed angry eyes at Morden. "_What the fuck_?" he exclaimed. "You gave her to me tonight. That means I get to do my business _my way_. I get that you give the orders around here, but you also said you wanted me to be happy. And right now you are making me very much NOT." A pointed look, and he grabbed at his crotch in emphasis. "Maybe," he hissed, "She's quiet because she's busy. Huh?"

Morden studied him long and hard, but Sheridan's expression radiated realistic anger and, beyond that, he was unreadable. "Fine," he said finally, and turned to go back down the hall.

Sheridan closed and locked the door again – and then in a stroke of genius, he took the one chair in the room and wedged it up under the doorknob before returning to his position stretched out beside Delenn. As he did so, he pulled the sheet and blanket back up to cover her. "Listen." His voice was as gentle as he could make it, just a notch above inaudible and, he knew, tinged with emotion. This life, this job, had hardened him so – the irony that he was feeling all that he was in this place didn't escape him, but he let it go. It made him feel more human than he had in a long time. "I can't get you out yet. It'll blow my cover and I can't chance that, not if either of us is going to live to see our next birthday. And I don't have the clout to stop him from…" He averted his eyes and sighed. "But I'll do everything I can to help you."

"She said you'd come," Delenn whispered, and he frowned, not sure if he'd heard her right. "She was right."

"Wh—who said?"

"Anna."

John's eyes went wide. "What do you know about Anna?"

"It's not safe here, John Sheridan. Not safe…"

"What do you know about Anna?" He repeated, his voice rising louder than he intended. He bit his lip as soon as the words were out. _Not safe_, she'd said, which was essentially what he had just told her.

"She was a liability." Nothing he hadn't gotten out of Morden, but he suspected there was more, something she didn't feel safe telling him; probably something she'd never said aloud.

He studied her face for a long time. Her eyes were full of life, sparkling when she spoke of Anna, shining with knowledge she probably wasn't supposed to have. He found that he _did_ want to touch her, to hold her – but not in the way Morden would have expected. He wanted to hold her for protection, for warmth, for comfort… to remind her what kindness felt like. "I'm tired," he said at last. "And you must be, too. Delenn I... I want you to know that when you're with me you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. When you're with me, we'll just sleep. I suspect you… you don't _just sleep_ as much as you'd like." She responded with an aversion of her eyes, and he nodded in understanding before getting up to turn off the bedroom light. When he returned to the bed, he laid beside her, sure to keep ample space between her body and his.

He was just drifting off to sleep when he felt her move closer, close enough to touch, and curl loosely inside his folded frame. It was a bittersweet moment; John was overjoyed to have her seek his warmth and comfort, to show a glimmer of trust, but he knew she'd continue to walk through fire and pain until he could get her out, and that might be quite some time. She was special, he knew; not just because she knew something about Anna, but because she had been smart enough and strong enough to keep herself alive here in the depths of Hell; because she was beautiful; because, he found, he wanted to know more about her, so much more about her. In spite of everything, he couldn't fight the feeling that he was falling for her.

Two years ago, he couldn't save Anna. Anna had died at the hands of the Vorlons – if Mr. Morden could be believed – in a malicious deal of drugs and sex and things he couldn't bear to consider. But here was a woman who had walked in that same world; here was a chance for his redemption. A silent vow passed through his mind: _I will never hurt you. And when this is over, I will make sure no one ever hurts you again. _He sealed that promise with a single, gentle kiss to the back of her head before surrendering himself to sleep.

* * *

"Investigation continues today into the death of Babylon PD Commander Susan Ivanova, who was shot to death in her home last night. While fingers are being pointed vehemently at the Shadows, there is as of yet no evidence to support this theory, and if there were any witnesses, they have yet to come forward."

Marcus switched off the TV and turned to his companion with raised eyebrows. "You look pretty good for a dead woman."

"When this is all over, Sheridan is going to wish he'd really done it." Susan rubbed absently at the considerable bruising on her chest. "Right now, though… right now he's just lucky he got away with it."

"So far," Marcus agreed, concern radiating from his eyes. He took a look around their accommodations – a dingy safehouse that BPD used for witness protection. "But he's got to know this arrangement won't work forever. Are you any closer to a plan?"

Susan let out a long sigh. "It would be really convenient if we could just let the two gangs take each other out. _But_ if we let things between the Vorlons and the Shadows come to a head in the streets of Babylon, it will be a bloodbath, and in the end, I suspect the city will fall firmly into the Shadows' hands. So… we have to move before that happens. Unfortunately, my trip to the district attorney's office for a warrant yesterday was less than successful. What we don't have is cold, hard evidence of criminal activity that ties directly to that bar. I think we could take down Morden if he'd show his face in the light of day, but the son of a bitch is too smart for that." She looked at Marcus now, and he didn't miss the momentary look of helplessness that flashed across her features.

"So why doesn't Sheridan just pull his badge? He's certainly seen enough to serve as a witness."

"The last drop I got from him said that there are endangered innocents, and he wants them free and clear of danger before the sting." She thought for a long moment on this. "But we can't wait forever." Grabbing a piece of paper, she hastily scribbled out a message for the captain, folded it and gave it to Marcus. "Drop this for him in the newspaper box at the corner of 3rd and Atwood. Bury it about halfway down the stack."

"I know."

She smiled as he took the note from her and kissed the top of her head gently. "Yeah, I guess you do." A pause. Then, "Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

"You miss it, don't you?"

He paused for consideration. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I don't regret my choices, and neither should you. Besides. If I'd elected to stay in Texas with the Rangers, and not to follow you up here to Babylon, who would you have right now to help you out while you're busy being dead, hmmm?" A smile, followed by a smacking kiss to her cheek. "I'll be back in an hour."

* * *

_Greetings from beyond the grave. Three Vorlons followed me to Heaven last night, and I don't think they'll be lucky enough for a resurrection. Start closing up the book. You have two weeks._

"Fucking fuck… fuck…" Sheridan held a lighter to the note as he did the math – "last night" she'd said. So this message drop was two days old, which meant he had 12 days to bring this to an end, or…

He paused. Or what? Unless she knew something he didn't about arrangements for the turf war, and that was next to impossible.

It didn't matter, though. If she said he had two weeks, then he had two weeks. The "or what" were the wild cards, the innocents - Delenn and the other girls. In the last two days he'd counted three more female faces who were there and then gone, shadows in their own right, though he had every reason to believe this wasn't their choice.

The good thing about being perceived as a trusted killer was that he had his freedom back and could come and go from Z'ha'dum as he pleased. This left him free to pick up his messages and drop them on a much more regular basis. So it was that he'd been able to intercept this one and leave one of his own.

_Human trafficking confirmed. Search nationwide missing persons – first name: Delenn, missing +5 years. Board meeting is on, +3 days – expect sting details and release of innocents to first fallback position in +4._

He considered what he'd written, mulling it over for a moment.

_Sorry you had to die,_ he added, and then nodded at his note and slipped it into the mail slot of an abandoned store front near Proxima Park.

It was the middle of the day on a Saturday; children were playing on the swings and slide. A young couple was walking their dog along the park's perimeter. An older couple was seated at a picnic table, sharing lunch in the shade of the same tree he'd been hiding behind during the shootout that had led to Sergeant Allan's injury and his own "arrest." He wondered if these people even knew how unsafe this park had become. In one respect, he was glad they seemed unaware of any impending danger; on the other, he really wished he could clear the park and close it until all this was over.

His cell phone rang and he answered, noting the source of the call before he did so. "Hello."

"Where are you?"

He was glad for the truth in his answer. "Proxima Park."

"I need you to meet Wade in five minutes behind the CVS on Welch Street." And the call was cut off, just like that. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but it did no good. Welch Street was a two-minute walk, at least – he needed to get going.

* * *

It was a beautiful day outside, but Epsilon County Police Chief Kosh barely noticed. He was in his office at 1 Police Plaza, as usual, keeping tabs on the ragtag team he'd assembled whose job it would be to take down the Shadows. He hadn't been able to do it himself, but these kids… these kids had it in them. So far they were doing very well. It definitely was not his time – it was theirs.

And now he was staring at a missing persons report, pulled at the request of the Babylon PD by way of Commander Ivanova, which came by way of her partner, Marcus Cole. Marcus Cole hadn't been part of Kosh's plan, but in hindsight he was a good addition, and a necessary one given that, for all intents and purposes, Ivanova was dead until this was over.

Kosh sighed as he put the report into the fax machine and sent it over to BPD. Captain Sheridan's report had caught Kosh by surprise; he'd thought Delenn long dead. In this he had felt kinship with Sheridan, due to the loss of Anna, and it was for this reason he'd felt Sheridan the right man to go to Z'ha'dum, the right man to bring the Shadows to light. He still felt that way, and maybe moreso, but for the first time in a long time… Kosh felt a glimmer of hope.


	8. Chapter 7: Shadow Dancing

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes

**Chapter 7 - Shadow Dancing**

Sheridan paused in the bar before descending into the Shadows' lair. Garibaldi was behind the counter, looking at him expectantly. It had been a long time since he'd stopped for a drink, too long, and he knew the bald-headed man was wondering why.

Carefully, he sat down on a barstool. The whiskey was in front of him before he had time to ask for it. "I was beginning to wonder what happened to you."

Sheridan gave a casual shrug. "Less need for alcohol once I discovered the wonderful world of… other indulgences," he said as nonchalantly as he could. With a sly smile, he added, "That Delenn… she's real pretty."

"That's her all right. Pretty little cocksucking whore."

Sheridan blanched, covering it with a sip from his drink. "Where'd she come from, anyway?"

Garibaldi studied him skeptically. "That's the second time I've heard you ask about her past. Why do you care?"

"Just curious, that's all."

"Well take my advice and knock it off." He offered no more but continued to stare at his comrade on the stool.

Sheridan's blood ran cold. He was under Garibaldi's suspicious microscope, being studied because he'd said something or done something he absolutely shouldn't have. Unintentionally, he'd crossed a dangerous line. Casually he added, "Sometimes I like to know a little bit about what I'm sticking my dick in."

"Look. Take this for what it's worth: You won't get better than Delenn. She'll do what you want, when you want it, as long as Morden gives the OK. Don't ask questions. Just enjoy her for what she is. Like your whiskey or your cocaine. You don't worry where they came from, do you?"

"Guess not."

"Well, there you go."

Sheridan emptied the glass quickly and stood from his stool. "Thanks man."

Garibaldi didn't respond. His eyes were narrowed at Sheridan's departing back, mind mulling over their conversation.

Something was not right.

* * *

Delenn was smart.

She was very smart, and once she knew the truth about John Sheridan, she was smart enough to keep it to herself. Even the other girls, the nameless ones who came and went and sometimes slept in her room couldn't know. He had said he could get her out, but she had to wait. She had to wait until the time was right. And so she waited, and she watched, and she remembered everything she did and everything she saw.

In fact, once she knew the truth, she made it a point to be on her best behavior. It wasn't pleasant, but it kept her mind clear. When she behaved, when she did what they wanted, they didn't do things like beat her senseless. They didn't do things like withhold food or drug her. They just let her be, because as long as she was what they perceived her to be, they didn't need anything else.

So she behaved, and she kept her eyes and ears open. She knew that yesterday, Wade had shot the owner of a local drug store for failure to pay street tax – money paid to the Shadows for "protection" – which mostly meant that if he paid them, he got to keep his life and his store. She knew that tomorrow, the Board would meet to plan their big confrontation with the Vorlons, and that Mr. Morden and Mr. Garibaldi and the others didn't care what happened to any innocent people who got in the way when it went down. And she knew that Commander Ivanova was not really dead.

This secret especially she stored away in a deep, dark corner of her mind. She had never met Susan Ivanova. But she knew what these men were like after a kill, and this would have been a big kill, the biggest they'd had in awhile. John Sheridan had not come to her room that night riding the high of a warlord who'd just taken down the commander of the Babylon PD. He didn't even come to her as a man who'd just taken down a Vorlon lookout. He simply came to her as a man; a kind man, with warm hazel eyes and a gentle smile that said he didn't want anything from her – that as soon as he could, he would give her all the things she'd wanted for five long years. He was her last, best hope for freedom, for peace… for love.

He'd felt natural, curled around her in Morden's bed that night. He was warm and comforting, and she found herself thinking of Anna, thinking that Anna had been absolutely right; he was a great refuge when the world went mad. He was a safe harbor in a terrible storm – which was good, because that's what they had here in Hell – a dark and terrible storm.

He could get her out, he'd said. He wanted to get her out. And she wanted so badly to believe him, wanted so badly to help him, but she'd been here long enough to know – no one who came to Z'ha'dum left here the same as they had been when they arrived, if they managed to leave at all. It changed everyone who walked through its doors. Including her. Including him.

Maybe, hopefully, it had changed him… for the better.

She was pondering this thought as footsteps approached, and then the curtain that served as her door was pushed aside. She froze; she was facing away from the door. Maybe if they thought she was sleeping, they'd go away. It never happened that way… but she always hoped.

"Sheridan is asking for your company." And she tried very, very hard to stifle the sigh of relief at Mr. Morden's words. "I told him he could have you when we were finished." And then he was sitting beside her on the bed; then he was pulling aside the sheet that covered her, and she could not stop the few tears that escaped at these words, even knowing how dearly they would cost her.

* * *

John's heart plummeted as Morden pushed Delenn into the room and pulled the door closed. "Dear… God…" On instinct, he came forward and put his arms around her.

She flinched away from him.

"I'm so sorry." He stepped back to give her space, and took another step for the purpose of being far enough away to get a good look at her. She had a fresh black eye, and bruises at the base of her throat. He could make out fingerprints here and there on her skin. "Did he…"

"I cried," she admitted, and now the tears welled up, and a second later they began to fall silently, freely. "He said… you asked for me and I thought… I'd be free tonight, and then he said…" Now she stifled a sob, and John tried again to come forward and take her in his arms. This time, she didn't stop him.

He stood there, eyes focused on the closed door as though he could use his willpower to keep anyone from entering their sanctuary, just holding her for a very long time. Not for the first time, he reflected on how fragile she felt in his arms, like if he held her too tightly, she might break. Her tears were soaking his shirt, and they fell silently, with very few hiccups, very few sobs and he realized – this was a woman who had perfected the art of the silent cry. Anna, he remembered, had never been very good at that. He'd always known when she was upset. Delenn survived in part because she knew to keep certain things buttoned up tight. He stroked her hair in a comforting gesture, wondering when the last time was that anyone had shown her this kindness without an agenda. He kissed her temple. He cried, too.

It was then, as the first of his tears landed on her bare shoulder, that Delenn took a tentative step back from him. Her eyes glistened; still, through the tears and the puffy eyes and the red face and the bruises, she was beautiful. "I will do anything I can to help you," she whispered. "But you must get me out of here."

"I…" He shook his head. "It's not…"

"No one survives Z'ha'dum, John." He listened to her use his first name, and it felt natural, like she'd always done it. The way she said it, even in such a hopeless sentence as this one, was like a breath of fresh air.

"You're wrong," he said, and didn't realize until he hit it with the back of his legs that they'd been walking slowly to the bed. He smoothed her hair again, tucked a stray lock gently behind her ears, brushed away her tears with the back of his hand. "You've survived."

She shook her head. "This body… is only a shell of the person I used to be."

"No. Listen to me." There was such conviction behind these words that Delenn tensed, afraid the others would hear. But the door to the room remained closed. "I've seen you. You're smarter than you let them believe. You're stronger than they know. You… have been my eyes and ears down here for five years, and I can't begin to thank you. You're the strongest woman I've ever known. Also the most mysterious." He lifted tentative fingers to her face, let them gently brush over her features as he studied her eyes, her nose… her lips. His roaming touch came to rest on her lower lip as he breathed, "Who… are you?"

"I am Delenn."

"But… who are you? Who _were_ you?" A ghost of a caress with his thumb to her cheek, and he could feel it now – his lips were only an inch from hers. _I won't do it, not now. Not tonight, not unless she…_

"Do not ask that question here," she breathed. "We are all Shadows of ourselves in this place. Even me. Even you." She was touching him now, freely, her fingers mapping his cheeks, his lips, his hair, his beard, the nape of his neck. In spite of himself, John felt a slow fire begin to build in his belly.

"I… I don't think…"

"Do you know how long it has been since I last knew the gentle touch of a kind man?" Her forehead came to rest against his, eyes drifted shut.

"Delenn…" He tried to pull back, but her hand came up to the back of his head, holding him in place.

"I believe you when you say you will take me away from this place."

"At the cost of my own life."

"It is my sincere hope…" He could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. Still he refused to close the gap. "That it will not come to that."

"Mine too." Silence, and it was as if the universe were standing still, waiting for their next move.

"Remind me what it feels like… to be cared for," she requested, and then her lips were pressed against his, warm and soft and everything he'd never wanted to find in Hell. He gave in at that, still not entirely convinced this was a good idea – but it didn't matter. Right now it wasn't about what he wanted; it was about what she needed. And what she needed was to be assured of her safety, to be reminded that there was yet still gentleness in the world. What she needed was warmth and comfort and closeness and an act that she could control. And so he resolved to let her take from him any and all of that, to take control of a dance that he suspected she may never have led.

* * *

Michael Garibaldi was not sleeping. He seldom slept well at all, having never quite worked out the work-drink-sex-high cycle in a way that would have him knocked out cold at the end of a long day, but tonight he was not sleeping for an entirely different reason. He was lying awake, alone in his bed, stone-cold clean and sober as his mind clicked slowly over John Sheridan.

He didn't trust the man.

It was a cardinal rule that no one trusted anyone here, but when it came down to it, they were all on the same side. And he wasn't entirely convinced that Sheridan was on that same side, too.

He'd taken out Ivanova. There was certainly that. He'd seen Sheridan execute that hit with his own eyes. It couldn't have been faked.

Could it?

He sat up slightly in the darkness and replayed the scene in his mind.

_Sheridan walks up to Ivanova's door and rings the bell._

_There is a considerable pause, during which I consider the alternatives to killing her._

_Ivanova answers._

_Sheridan pulls his weapon, fires three precise shots at close range. _

_There is a shout._

_Ivanova falls to the ground._

_Sheridan walks away like a man on a mission, continuing his brisk pace all the way back to the lair._

_I follow._

He sat up further, focusing intently on the middle of the scene.

_Sheridan pulls his weapon, fires three precise shots at close range._

_There is a shout._

_Close range._

_Three shots._

Garibaldi swung his legs over the side of his bed, pace quick and purposeful as he turned toward Morden's quarters, his mind grasping the last piece of the puzzle.

"Get up!" He hollered as he stormed into Morden's room and flicked on the light. He took a minor note of a nameless woman's presence as he seethed on this missing detail.

"Get OUT," Morden corrected. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning."

"No, it can't. Get up." Garibaldi threw Morden's pants at him.

"Get out."

"Commander Ivanova is not dead. He faked it. I don't know how he managed to do it without being able to contact her but –"

"Garibaldi, I swear –" Now Morden was standing, fastening his pants and seething from his own rage. A hint of a high was shining in his dark eyes as Garibaldi dropped the dagger.

"Three shots fired at close range." Garibaldi took another step toward his leader, bringing them within an inch of each other, his tone dangerously low. "But his clothes were clean as a whistle when he got back here. _Three shots_, you fuck. Three shots at close range, all to the chest – and there wasn't even a _hint_ of blood splatter."

Morden's eyes went wide in the darkness. He paused only for a split second for consideration before grabbing his baby glock from the top drawer of his bureau and stalking out of the room.


	9. Chapter 8: Moments of Transition

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

Special Author's Note 11/7/10 - Many apologies to those of you who have posted things recently that I haven't had a chance to read/review. I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month this year, and it is eating up most of the time I would normally spend doing things like writing new fic and reading the stuff my favorite authors have written. I appreciate your continued efforts to read and review my stuff and I promise I will catch up eventually. Meanwhile, for the month of November, anything you see from me was written before I ventured into NaNoWriMo land and has been held in reserve until now.

**Chapter 8 - Moments of Transition**

John awoke very slowly to the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He let a lazy smile spread across his face, and when he rolled over to open his eyes, there was Delenn, stretched out beside him, head propped up on one fist, watching him. "Hey."

"I did not mean to wake you." Her tone was quiet; truly calm and relaxed for the first time since he'd met her.

"'Sokay." He paused. "You were watching me sleep." She nodded, biting her bottom lip. "Why?"

Delenn was quiet for a moment longer, giving him the tiniest of smiles as she continued to study his face. Sleep faded from his features, and the expression that remained was kind and comforting, natural. "I have always believed that during the day, people put on the face they feel will do them the most good. But… when you sleep… at a certain point, you relax, and your true face is revealed."

"You're a very interesting woman, Delenn. Do you know that?" John shook his head at the ceiling and laughed lightly. "What time is it?"

"Early. The meeting is today."

He rolled onto his side to look at her but didn't respond to her statement directly. "How many girls are here right now?" He asked quietly.

"Five, I believe."

"I know it's a lot to ask, but if you could find out for sure…"

"How will you get them out?"

"Not them." He shook his head. "You. All of you. You're going tonight, and so am I. At 10:30 tonight, I'll be arrested and booked for Ivanova's murder. It will be very public, but you'll be safe by then – I promise. And by the time the sun rises tomorrow, BPD will know the full extent of Morden's plans, his operation… everything. Your testimony will be more than enough for a search warrant – if you think… you can…" He let the sentence trail off and looked at her expectantly.

"It will not be easy."

"Nothing worthwhile ever is. I know you can do it." He chanced reaching out a hand toward hers, taking the one that was not holding up her head.

She allowed him to hold her hand briefly, loosely, and their eyes met. They shared a smile.

And then her eyes went wide in the pre-dawn darkness; she snatched her hand back and went rigid.

"Delenn? Delenn what's wrong? I—I'm sorry I—"

"He's coming," she whispered, pulling their single blanket up to cover the front of her body.

"What? I—"

"He knows." The words were barely out of her mouth as Sheridan became alert to heavy footsteps and rustling in the hall. "You… your life is in great danger, John Sheridan."

John closed his eyes and pulled his lips tight. How had they found him out? It didn't really matter. Delenn said they had, and Delenn knew everything about everything around here.

"Listen to me." The footfalls were getting closer. "Don't worry about me, just get the hell out of here. Take my cell phone, go up to the bar where there's decent reception and hit the fifth speed dial." He grabbed the phone from his pants pocket as he pulled them on and pressed it firmly into her palm. She looked at him with wild eyes, quickly pulling on what passed for her clothing. "Tell whoever answers it's an 11-99, Code 2." His shirt came over his head following this instruction. At her confused and worried shake of the head, he translated, "Officer in jeopardy. Immediate response requested."

"But what about… what about you? What about the other girls?"

"If Morden's found me out, his quarrel will be with me. Not them. Now go." He opened the door and shoved her out, and with one last worried glance over her shoulder, she disappeared up the stairs just as Morden and Garibaldi came into view.

Sheridan didn't have time to think before Garibaldi's knock-out punch connected with his face and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

Ivanova was in the middle of a wonderful dream. She and Marcus were strolling hand in hand through the streets of Paris. It was springtime; birds were singing, trees were in bloom. With the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, they stopped and he faced her, and after a moment's pause, he dropped eloquently to one knee.

"Susan."

He was speaking to her, and she was smiling at him, eyes tearing up - only the words he was speaking didn't match the picture.

"Susan, you have to wake up."

Rather than rouse her, his words shifted the picture, morphed it into something else, and she was stretched out across the length of a four-poster bed. Marcus was holding himself above her, looking deeply into her eyes, brushing her hair off her face…

"Susan!"

She started, jolting from her dream, and when she opened her eyes it took her a moment to get her bearings. She was in the safehouse. It was either very late or very early, and Marcus was leaning over her, jostling her arm with a distinct lack of his usual gentleness. She sat up slowly. "What?"

"Something's happened."

* * *

Kosh was at the office. He rarely left this office. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, he realized he might have to.

Two reports had come across his scanner in quick succession, followed by a phone call from the undead Commander Ivanova, who had gotten the same reports.

The Vorlons had drawn a line straight through the heart of Babylon, at a metropolitan intersection that would be bustling with innocent civilians in just a few hours. There was every indication that the Shadows would come to meet them there, and a bloody showdown no one was ready for would unfold just in time to do the most harm.

Captain Sheridan had issued the ultimate SOS from his undercover operation and his life might well be in jeopardy.

_Where do we put our firepower?_

The answer was obvious to the objective observer. But Kosh was not objective.

He thought of Captain Sheridan, who had entered the Shadows without any real idea what he was getting himself into and was now in way over his head.

He thought of a young woman he'd presumed dead years ago who had kept herself alive, probably hoping and praying every day for rescue.

And he thought of Ivanova, and of Jeffrey Sinclair, and of Sergeant Allan, and of all of the other uniformed officers who had suffered as a result of the darkness that had descended on the city of Babylon.

The firepower of the Babylon PD would need to be focused in the city streets. There was no doubt whatever about that. If the intersection of Coriana and 6th streets was to be where the Vorlons and Shadows collided, there were too many innocent lives at stake for Ivanova and the others to take any other action. With regard to Sheridan, his mission had failed. It was FUBAR and no longer relevant in any case, because to everyone's surprise, the _Vorlons_ had drawn the line. It was the way it was, and he would need to be sacrificed for the greater good.

But Kosh would not be at the intersection of Coriana and 6th. Kosh would not be at the battle.

He was going to Z'ha'dum.

* * *

Morden seethed as he opened the box the two young and nameless runners presented him with.

"This is it?"

"It's enough," Garibaldi replied for them as he studied the box's contents. He reached in and lifted one object out. "Captain. Fuck."

"I want to know," Morden said in a dangerously level tone as he opened a manila folder and studied its contents, "How you fuckers missed this in your initial search."

"It was hidden under the floorboards, for Christ's sake," Garibaldi returned. "How were we supposed to know?"

There was a long pause during which Morden let the anger boil his blood and Garibaldi waited for a response. Then in a split second, Michael Garibaldi found himself pinned against the wall, a knife blade pressed to his neck and drawing a thin bead of blood.

"Because it's your fucking _job_, you fucking fuck." Morden leaned in close, close enough that he knew the other man could feel his breath. He pressed more firmly with the blade and dropped his smile, dropped his slick exterior. "I give the orders and you execute them _without fail_, without question and _without missing important details_ like the fact that, I don't know, John Sheridan is something like _A FUCKING POLICE CAPTAIN_! So now what are we supposed to do, huh?" Garibaldi had several opinions, but he didn't feel he was in the position to offer any. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. You and the others are going to Coriana and 6th and you're going to engage the Vorlons, because they've issued the invitation and I don't intend to turn it down."

"And you?" Garibaldi managed to get out.

"Sheridan and I are going to have a little chat." Garibaldi was struggling for breath as Morden leaned in closer still. He gasped in pain and shock. Frightened blue eyes met dark, cold brown in a staredown. "And if the Vorlons don't kill you, you sure as hell better hope I've gotten the blood I desire from him or it'll be _your_ body they find beaten beyond recognition in a dumpster tomorrow morning." Morden's tirade was coming fast and furious, each word spat out with equal venom. "Now get out of my sight." He released his hold on Garibaldi and the bald man brought his hand up to his neck, inspecting the damage with his fingers. "You might want to have that looked at," Morden offered before turning around to walk away without looking back.

Garibaldi stared after him for a long moment, waiting until Morden turned a corner before he departed in the opposite direction, hand applying pressure to the cut in his neck. He should have been out of earshot, but Sheridan's scream was loud enough to echo throughout the lair.


	10. Chapter 9: The Face of the Enemy

Author's Note: Cautionary warning for violence - and references to prior acts of violence - on this chapter. If Intersections in Real Time turns your stomach, this chapter might, too.

**Chapter 9 - The Face of the Enemy**

It was the shock of the first blow to his sternum that woke him, and John let out a yell the likes of which he hadn't known himself capable of. Punches and kicks continued in quick succession – chest, legs, groin, face, abdomen – again – again - and he continued to howl until some small corner of his mind that was still coherent and rational realized he did not want to give Morden the satisfaction. Still, he couldn't keep himself from grunting, and when he looked up through one swollen eye, he could see that Morden was smiling.

He blocked out the passage of time, but it was likely considerable. He felt his body giving way to the abuse, felt what was probably his left kneecap breaking, a concussion settling in, and then he stopped counting because it somehow hurt less that way. He did notice the taste of blood in his mouth, sharp and copper and undeniable, and he wasn't surprised to locate a tooth floating free. He spat it out, followed by a second. He pulled his knees up as much as he could to protect himself, but Morden only nudged them out of the way – by this point, John was too weak to fight him. Finally, the kicking and punching stopped, and John thought perhaps Morden was of the opinion that he'd lost consciousness. John kept his eyes closed and his body still, content to let the other man think just that.

He took the next few eerily quiet moments to take stock of his situation. His hands were cuffed behind his back, feet bound at the ankles – likely this had happened during whatever time he'd been unconscious following Garibaldi's knock-out punch. His nose was broken, to begin with. Working his way down, he was quite uncertain about his jaw. Three… maybe four ribs were cracked if not broken. There was the left kneecap he'd noted right off, and he was uncertain about his ability, should he survive this, to father children at any point in the future. As for his internal organs, he couldn't be certain, but the pain in his left upper abdomen might very well be a ruptured spleen, and he was fairly sure that any further pummeling to his stomach area would cause him to upchuck all over the cold, hard cement he was laying on. _Where am I?_

"This is Hell, Captain." Had he asked that out loud? He must have. Morden's voice was cold and unforgiving with his assessment. "And you are its chief damned soul."

John coughed, opened his eyes briefly for a blurry view of his surroundings – which from this position mostly amounted to Morden's feet – and then clenched them shut again. _He called me Captain._

"Yes, I did."

_Fuck_.

"Captain John J. Sheridan. Babylon PD." He opened his eyes again and forced his gaze upward. Morden was standing over him, holding something roughly palm-sized in his right hand. _My shield._ "Well, Captain Sheridan. It's very nice to meet you. The real you, that is. How much of what you told us was the truth?" Morden wandered away. John didn't respond. "None of it? I know that's not right. I know…" There was a clatter of metal near John's face, and his eyes focused on a thin gold band. "I know you lost your wife. I know she really did die in a hostage situation that went badly. But I know that—" Morden crouched now, lifted Sheridan's chin with one hand so they could meet eye-to-eye. "I know that because I killed her."

John couldn't stop the shout of frustration that escaped him now.

Morden just chuckled. "I figured I might as well level with you, since you're going to die here anyway. You should feel honored. This is where I come to play with my most favorite victims. This is where the best of the best come to die. Jeffrey Sinclair died in this room, that pig, the one who never had a chance of getting on the inside because I had him fingered from day one. I thought about just capping him right away, but he was clueless, and he was useful. When he became a liability, I brought him down here, and I put an end to it. To him. And—" Another chuckle, and Morden straightened and began to pace. He stopped, though, to deliver the crushing blow. "Your wife died in this room too, Captain Sheridan. And here is where I will concede to this being partly my fault. I knew who you were all along, but you're quite the little actor, because I bought it. I bought it hook, line and sinker that you'd really left the force with a chip on your shoulder. Not that any of that matters now. Whether I found out then or now… we were destined to meet here, like this." Morden took a moment to consider his next words. "Your wife," he said finally, bringing a familiar framed photograph of Anna within inches of John's face. "She was fun while she lasted. Feisty, though. That's why she had to go. Ohhhh I had fun with her before I ended it, don't you worry. The way she _screamed_, the way she tried so hard to fight back… made it all the more sweet when I wrapped my hands around her neck and squeezed, and squeezed, until the light just… went out of her eyes." He crouched again. John was crying now, he knew he was. He could feel hot tears of anger streaming down his cheeks – it stung where he had open sores. Morden whispered, "She called out for you, did you know that? When I was fucking her. _When I was raping her._ Before I killed her. She called out to you then, and she called out for you with her dying breath. She was goooood, Captain. Even better than Delenn."

"You bastard." John spat the insult out with all the venom he possessed. "I'll kill you."

"No… no, that's not really how this's going to go. Unless it's Opposite Day." Morden extended a foot to make a point, delivering an unforgiving kick to the back of John's skull. "Sleep well, Captain. We'll continue this again in a little while."

* * *

How do you stop a war when you're not on either side? Commander Ivanova wasn't sure it was even possible, but she was sure as hell going to try. She'd grown up here in the streets of Babylon. Looking up from the corner of Coriana and 6th, she could see the studio apartment she'd lived in as a very young child, the place that held her first memories. She remembered walking home with her mother every day of kindergarten and first grade – three blocks up, two blocks left, one block over, and on Fridays, a stop by the marketplace for an ice cream cone. She remembered her senior Homecoming parade, which had woven all the main streets, including this intersection. She remembered the coffee shop where she'd spent countless nights since taking this post, even before Sinclair's assassination – because that's what it was, really – mulling over open cases and witness testimony. And she remembered Marcus, and the dream they had that someday, they'd walk these streets with their own child, and he or she could make new memories for all of them.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she muttered to herself as she leaned against the old brick building that served as a drug store. The awning and her dark clothing kept her well hidden. She could see the line being drawn, bit by bit – on one side the Vorlons, on the other the Shadows. She was smack in the middle.

Sheridan was nowhere to be seen.

She wondered only briefly about his well-being before coming to the conclusion that he was probably dead, sacrificed for the greater good, and it gave her even more determination to end this here and now. She looked around. Her allies were hidden just as well as she, but they were there; oh, they were there in droves. The entire strength of the BPD was present, along with officers from surrounding communities and even a sizeable amount of civilian volunteers who were tired of living in fear. Shrouded in the darkness, they were a formidable force.

Movement to her left, just barely – a flash of yellow against the darkness where it shouldn't have been – and she lifted her radio. "First tactical squadron, advance from behind but do not, I repeat, _do not_ fire until I give the order. I want them surrounded on all sides before we move in." She looked to her right, trying to draw the other line out. It was harder; the blue of the Shadows blended better into the darkness.

And then a shot rang out.

"Shots fired, we have shots fired! Second tactical squadron, move in and commence takedown procedure. _Do not_ fire unless fired upon – I want as many of these fuckers alive as possible." She cut her radio and fell back to join her squad. She was so proud of them in that moment, but couldn't help a silent prayer – _and may God help us all._

_

* * *

_

Kosh had been to Z'ha'dum before. Five years had passed, but it looked the same. It carried the same air of foreboding, of hopelessness, though a keener eye, the eye of someone who knew what really happened here, would see the bar as a final refuge for lost souls. Five years since his world changed; five years since he tracked a nameless man and a small band of rebellious followers to this bar; five years since he turned his back on the only person who'd ever loved him in order to protect himself.

He'd just made Police Chief, and he was too proud to let anything jeopardize that. So when the Shadows took his daughter, he went after her – until Mr. Morden confronted him with a fact that had been slid from his record years ago, a fact he threatened to make public if Kosh made any further heroic rescue attempts – the fact that long ago, in another city, another state, nearly another world, Kosh had been a Vorlon. If revealed, it would cost him his position, his badge, everything he'd worked for… and likely, in the end, the lives of himself and his daughter anyway.

Now he crossed the threshold, weapon drawn, willing to lay down his life if it meant he could rescue just one. Perhaps, it would be Sheridan… perhaps…

"Father?"

It was a barely audible whisper, and in the darkness he did not see her until she stepped from the shadows.

"Delenn."

"You have to help him." She didn't make any attempt to move closer; her expression was blank, unreadable. Then she pushed on a panel at the back of the bar and it opened, a hidden door into the darkness.

Kosh paused before moving slowly toward the open door, closer to Delenn. "They told me you were dead," she whispered.

"It was the only way. If I'd come for you, they would have killed us both."

She studied him for a long moment. "There are five young women in the small room all the way to the left of the stairs," she said at last, avoiding his statement. He wouldn't apologize, she knew that. If there was anything she understood about her father, it was that he never apologized for the way things had to be. "Sheridan wanted them to be freed."

Kosh gave a barely perceptible nod. At the top of the stairs, he paused and turned to look back at her one last time. "You should leave. Now."

Delenn felt suddenly small and frightened, and Kosh could read it in her expression. Her voice cracked slightly when she spoke. "I have nowhere else to go."

He could have fought it, could have insisted – hell, he could have sent her to his squad car, which was parked just blocks away. Instead he reached down to where he stored his backup weapon at his ankle and handed it to her. He held her gaze for a moment longer than he ever had, and then he said the words Delenn had waited her entire childhood to hear; words she'd been without even before coming to this horrible place; words that broke her heart because of their delivery here. "I love you, Delenn," he said. A pause, and he turned to descend the stairs. He was two steps in when she heard his whisper, "Goodbye."

* * *

Morden smirked in the darkness at the sound of footsteps approaching. He stood poised over Sheridan like a large cat protecting a fresh kill. He cocked his gun – there were two bullets in the chamber. It would be enough. Morden never missed. "And the final player in our little drama arrives at last." He let out a laugh, an evil laugh that – as Sheridan swam to consciousness – sounded not unlike every villain in every movie of his childhood. _Boring_, he thought to himself, then frowned – at least, mentally he frowned. He couldn't tell if he still had control of his facial muscles. _God. I think I'm delusional._

"I was expecting you," Sheridan heard Morden say now. He fought to open his eyes, to see who had ventured down here to save him, but he couldn't. His eyelids were heavy, so heavy, and they hurt. _How is that possible?_ "I was expecting you long ago, actually. Funny how it took the fall of someone as insignificant as Captain Sheridan to bring you down here. Funny how your own flesh and blood couldn't do it." _What the hell is he talking about?_

"This ends _now_," he heard, and the low, definitive voice drew his attention toward the doorway. He opened his eyes just in time to focus on the chief, weapon drawn.

"Chief," Sheridan choked out.

He couldn't get to his feet. He couldn't have stopped it. He heard the explosion of Morden's gun, heard Kosh get off a shot as well – and he watched helplessly as Kosh fell to the ground. There were a few moments of deafening silence, and then he heard Morden's voice, clearly pained. "I wanted to play with you a bit longer," he said. "But it appears I won't get the chance."

Sheridan looked up, and then wished he hadn't. Morden was bleeding from a single wound to the left shoulder; his right hand held the gun and as his shadow eclipsed Sheridan entirely, he pointed the gun from his standing position. The bullet would strike the captain right between the eyes, and he was helpless to stop it. "Any last words?"

Sheridan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, both men were distracted again by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. He turned his head as much as he was able to gaze at his savior.


	11. Chapter 10 Between Darkness and Light

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

**Chapter 10 – Between the Darkness and the Light**

Ivanova found it hard to keep from being lost in the melee. _This is chaos_, she thought to herself. _Is this how war is supposed to be? _She couldn't tell who was winning, and as she called out to her squad on the radio, she got no response. For a few moments she felt as if all sound fell away and she was watching a silent movie. And then one voice was singled out.

"How do you kill someone who's already supposed to be dead? Now that's a very interesting question."

It came from behind her and she spun on instinct, gun poised for a shot. It didn't matter, though; the speaker, whoever it was, had the advantage and didn't hesitate. She felt the first bullet strike her bulletproof vest, but the second one got her in the left shoulder and she let out a shout and fell to the ground.

"Because I saw you get killed with my own eyes. I saw _Captain_ John Sheridan shoot you three times." A shadow fell over her. She looked up into icy blue eyes. No emotion. No fear. No life.

"Go to hell."

"You first." He cocked his gun; she heard the bullet slide into the chamber with a deafening _click_, despite all the noise in the background.

"Drop it!"

Ivanova's head jerked instinctively toward the familiar voice and she twisted her shoulder slightly, bringing forth another cry of pain. "Get out of here, Marcus."

The nameless man poised over her narrowed his eyes at that. "This is personal. Maybe I kill him instead?"

"Drop it or I'll fill you so full of holes you'll whistle every time the wind blows."

"I don't like threats."

"Funny. I don't much like you right now either."

"I'll kill her, I swear to God –"

"Fine. Do it." Ivanova's eyes went wide and she mentally cursed Marcus to a thousand nights on the couch if they both managed to survive this. "Look around. You're not getting out of here. Your cronies are falling one by one. So you have two choices. Surrender peacefully and we'll make this less painful for everyone. But you kill her and I assure you, you will not leave here alive."

The commander, from her position sprawled out on her right side, gripped her weapon firmly and aimed it upward. Around them she was vaguely aware that the pop-pop of gunfire was becoming less frequent; that the shouting had died down; that now what she mostly heard, when voices broke through, were Miranda rights and final bargains for life. A voice came through on her radio – it was Corwin, her second tactical squadron leader. "Perimeter mostly secure, Commander," he said, and Ivanova couldn't help thinking – _mostly? You're an officer of the law in the biggest battle of your life. Don't say shit like "mostly." Give me a percentage or something._ "Estimate… 25 dead." _That's better._ "Seventeen wounded. Ambulances on the way." Corwin paused. "Commander? Commander Ivanova, please respond."

She reached for her radio. Garibaldi fired.

Marcus fired.

A sharp pain to her back, and then her world went dark.

* * *

Delenn clutched the weapon for all she was worth. She had learned to fire one of these once, long ago. It was about the only activity over which she could bond with her father, so as a teen she had asked him to take her to the firing range. She wasn't very good, but it was a good memory.

"Delenn. Put the gun down." Morden's voice was directive, as though he didn't expect anything less than full cooperation.

"No."

"Put the gun down," Morden repeated. "Or you'll pay for it."

"I have _paid_," Sheridan heard, and he let out a groan, shifting slightly, slowly moving away from Morden, who – somehow – was no longer paying him any attention. He had to drag himself – he couldn't stand, couldn't even crawl. He was in agony, but his heart surged with pride for Delenn. "I have paid for crimes I did not commit, paid for sins that are not mine to bear. I have paid _enough_. And now _you_ will pay." She raised the gun to fire, arms shaking.

Morden had a problem. He had only one bullet left in the chamber, and he had no idea whether Kosh might have called for reinforcements. It seemed improbable given that most likely, all of Babylon PD was caught in a crossfire between his forces and the Vorlons – but it was not a gamble he could afford to make. If he fired on Delenn, it was very likely he could finish Sheridan off by hand before he bled to death himself. Nodding in decision, he raised the gun.

"NO!" Sheridan roared. He lunged upward, white-hot pain shooting through his whole body as he used all of his remaining strength to knock Morden to the ground – thinking only that if he gave Delenn a few more moments, even if he himself did not survive, she could rethink her strategy, retreat – or fire. There was a burst of a gunshot and Sheridan didn't realize until he felt the warm, sticky wetness of blood that Morden had struck him square in the chest. Somehow it didn't hurt. What was one more infliction piled on top of the abuse his body had already endured?

A second gun fired, and Morden stiffened. John thought maybe Delenn had struck him, but no – Morden only laughed more of that ridiculous evil laughter. He tossed his gun aside and began to move toward Delenn.

"I know you don't want to kill me. You have no one else. You have no other home. No one will want you. No one else will love you. No one else will take care of you." He gave a glance at Sheridan who lay unmoving on the floor. "And I don't think he's going to be around long enough to do you any good. Put the gun down and I won't hurt you."

"You are a liar," she seethed. "You hurt everyone who crosses your path. You do not love me. You do not love anyone. You have no one except those who are afraid of you and I… I am not afraid of you anymore." John was vaguely aware of another gunshot, the sound cutting through the cobwebs in his mind, and this time he heard the unmistakable sound of a body falling, a head hitting the cement floor. He looked over and there was Morden crumpled beside him. Delenn had hit him in the chest, but miraculously, like Sheridan, he was still breathing.

"I didn't think she'd actually do it." Morden sounded shocked as well as pained. He wouldn't last; the question was simply whether he would meet his end before John did. "I didn't think…" Morden's hand moved, and John's mind understood what was happening, though he couldn't move to stop it as the other man's bloody hand grasped a pocket knife and slashed out in John's direction. John's shout as the knife slashed his arm was drowned out by yet another gunshot echoing through the room, and then Morden was looking at him with wide eyes that were quickly glazing over in death.

John's eyes were nearly as wide, in shock, in pain – in the realization that he would very likely not leave this room alive. "Delenn," he choked. "The call. Did you…"

"It is likely they will not come." She crossed the room and sank down, pushing Morden aside and crossing her legs before cradling John's head in her lap.

"Then… I guess… if I have to die," John gasped for air, "At least I can do it looking into the face of an angel."

Her hand brushed over his face, a cool touch on his burning body.

"I only regret that I didn't get the chance to know you outside these walls." He reached up and took her hand, gazing into her eyes. "You know I think… I'm lucky." At her frown, the shake of her head, he continued with labored breath. "I learned something here. I came here thinking… I would find something worth dying for, a cause, something… but what I found…" He squeezed her hand. "What I found was you. I found something… something worth living for."

Faintly, in the distance, Delenn became aware of the sound of sirens.

Sheridan heard them too, though he was utterly convinced it was the harps of the angels, ushering him into heaven. He could feel himself letting go of his body, and yet he kept smiling through the pain, looking up at Delenn, who was smiling back. An angel, that's what she was for sure…

And then he was being lifted, lifted…

"Pulse is weak and thready. Call ahead to the ER – he's lost a lot of blood."

"Lift on my count. Ready? One, two, three."

"Babylon Memorial, this is Unit 14. ETA two minutes. Two DOAs and one male, approximate age 45, single gunshot wound to the chest, multiple abrasions, severe internal and skeletal injuries. Have an OR prepped and ready."

"Blood pressure's dropping!"

"I'm losing the pulse. He's crashing!"

Sheridan looked up. Where was his angel? _There she is._ He smiled again, and he felt her touch his hand, and then he knew it was OK to let go.


	12. Chapter 11: Endgame

**Chapter 11 - Endgame**

Dr. Stephen Franklin had been Chief of Staff at Babylon Memorial for four years, and in all his time he'd never seen a day like this one, and he prayed to never see another one like it ever again. He had five ERs and three operating rooms and just barely enough staff to keep them all open as his hospital filled with more shooting victims than he'd ever seen in his life.

"I want this hospital closed. _NOW_!" He exclaimed, pointing a wild finger at his reception desk. "Reroute all incoming traffic, tell them we're full. And start calling around to surrounding communities – Minbar, Agamemnon, whatever – see if we can Medflight some of our non-criticals."

"Unit 14 just called. Two DOAs – one of them is Police Chief Kosh." Franklin cursed. "And one critical victim, male, 45, gunshot wound to the chest and besides that, he's had one hell of a beating. About two minutes out – they say he's BPD."

Franklin shook his head. "Why weren't they with the rest?"

"Don't know, Sir." Dr. Lillian Hobbes enjoyed her work here, she really did – and sometimes she thought she could handle the stress better than her superior, but for the time being, that was between her and a fencepost. "He's already crashed once. Won't survive a trip anywhere else."

"All right, all right, fine. Clear Exam 2 and move your least critical emergency patient there. Someone who doesn't require surgery."

"And then what?"

"Then we'll improvise." Franklin stopped to put on a fresh gown and gloves as he ducked into ER 2. "How is she?"

The attending – name? Franklin didn't know right now, and didn't really care – looked up. "Stable," he said, and Franklin let out a sigh of relief.

"Good. I don't need to know how hard the city would come down on this hospital's funding if we let the Commander of the BPD _and_ the Chief of Police die on our watch. Get her upstairs to a room. A _nice_ room," he clarified. "I think her boyfriend's in chairs; make sure he knows, and send him up right away." He ducked out.

"Dr. Franklin. Unit 14—"

"On my way." Again, new gloves, new scrubs, and he rushed toward the ambulance bay just as the flashing lights came into view.

"We lost the pulse about twenty seconds ago," an EMT reported.

"Fuck. Commander Ivanova pulled through; she'll have a shitfit if he dies. He's lost a lot of blood."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"Breath sounds?"

"Gone the way of the pulse. Looks like a DOA if I ever saw one."

Franklin shook his head. "Not if I have anything to say about it." He rushed beside the stretcher, leading them into ER 4 where a team was waiting. "Who's the woman?"

"Don't know, but there were five more where she came from. I think this guy holds the key, unless you can get one of those Shadows to cough up the info."

"Get her something to wear. Scrubs or something." The ER team had already set to work on Sheridan, shocking his chest once, then twice. Franklin rushed the EMTs and the woman out of the room and pulled the doors closed.

"We have a pulse. It's weak, but it's there," Dr. Hobbes relayed, and Franklin nodded as he joined her near Sheridan's head.

"All right. Get me four units of O-neg, and type and cross for the rest. I want to preserve that universal donor blood if we can." He looked down at the officer before him and shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Jesus Christ, buddy. How the hell are you still alive?" He let out a long breath. "See if you can find something to ID him. And for the love of God, somebody call up and get me an OR. We'll take him up as soon as he's stable enough to travel."

* * *

Marcus smiled as Susan's eyes opened. He stood at her side, holding her right hand between both of his. "Hi." He squeezed her hand; leaned down to kiss it. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a truck. But you should see the other guy." She tried to laugh at her own joke, but winced at the pain it caused. Then a hint of worry crossed her features. "How _is_ the other guy?"

"Which one?"

"Well." She hesitated. "Both."

"Michael Garibaldi has a single, very clean gunshot wound to the left leg, just enough to pull him off his feet, almost like someone planned it that way." Marcus beamed momentarily in pride. "He has been properly Mirandized and is with the rest of his cohorts, handcuffed to a bed in a locked ward for recovery until they are healthy enough for a jail cell."

"And Sheridan?"

A pause. "He came in just as they were moving you upstairs. I passed by just in time to hear someone calling for an ID. It… didn't sound good."

"I knew it. I just knew if he went in there, he'd get himself killed."

Marcus chose to ignore this for now. Instead he said, "Chief Kosh is dead."

Susan blinked. "What?"

"He went down to Z'ha'dum to try to rescue Sheridan. He knew the rest of you wouldn't get there in time."

"I thought he'd never leave that office." She shook her head. "Morden?"

"Dead."

"There's justice in that, at least."

They were silent for a long moment. Marcus traced the lines on Susan's palm, studying the grooves and indents intently. "I thought I'd lost you for sure."

"You're the one who told that psychopath to go ahead and shoot me," she returned with a light smile.

"Susan." His eyes registered genuine emotion, and she felt subdued by his expression. "I mean it. I…" He interlocked his fingers with hers then and looked into her eyes with every ounce of sincerity he possessed. "Will you marry me?"

This wasn't Paris. There was no Eiffel Tower backdrop, no four-poster bed, and she couldn't say for certain that she wasn't hallucinating the whole thing, from the amount of pain killers they were probably pumping her full of. But if it was real, if there was any chance it was real, she wasn't going to walk away. "Of course." He leaned forward, kissed her hand. "Of course I'll marry you. So long as you promise to never, ever, _ever_ tell anyone to go ahead and shoot me _ever_ again."

* * *

Delenn waited. She waited because she had nowhere else to go. She sat outside the operating room in a cold, hard chair, dressed in green surgeon's scrubs. She dozed a bit, but mostly she thought a lot. She thought about her father. She thought about Anna. She thought about the other girls and hoped, prayed, they had been taken to safety and returned to their families. And she thought about John Sheridan.

If he survived, what would he do? He had no reason to stay here in Babylon if the Shadows had been defeated. Would he return to whatever quieter life he had left behind to come here? Or would he stay?

Moreover, if he didn't survive – which seemed much more likely at this point – would anyone remember him? His part in today's events had turned out to be minimal. In the final analysis, he really hadn't _done_ anything – his mission had blown up in his face when he'd been discovered, and doubly so because the Vorlons, to everyone's surprise, had moved first.

_It's always the quiet ones_, her father used to say.

She was pulled from her thoughts as a surgeon exited the operating room, pulling off his gloves as he did so.

"Excuse me," she spoke up, getting to her feet. "Can you tell me how he is?"

The surgeon hesitated. "Are you family?"

"Yes." Barely a pause to consider this word before it was out. "I'm the only family he has."

More hesitation from the surgeon. "We managed to stop the internal bleeding, but we had to remove his spleen. He'll be in traction for at least a month for breaks to both legs, and at present his mouth is wired shut as a first step to repairing a broken jaw. He'll likely need reconstructive surgery – they did a number on his face, but that's the least of his problems. He is damn lucky to be alive, and there's still no guarantee that he didn't sustain any brain damage; we won't know anything about that until when and if he wakes up."

"But he will survive?"

"Truth be told I have no idea how he did it – but yes. Prognosis is good." He nodded at her and then walked away.

Alone again, Delenn looked over her shoulder into the operating room. John Sheridan was being lifted off the table and onto a stetcher, likely for transport to a room. A minute later, nurses pushed him into the hall. Delenn only hesitated a moment before joining them. The nurses didn't question her presence as she reached out and took John's left hand – the one she knew to be stronger, the one that didn't have an IV stuck in it. She squeezed.

She swore she felt him squeeze back.

* * *

Author's Note 11/20/10: TBC. Although most plotlines are resolved here, there is an epilogue that ties everything together, which should follow soon.


	13. Epilogue: Rising Star

See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's notes.

**Epilogue - Rising Star (six months later)**

Delenn stood on shaky legs at the construction site. It was to be a park, the city had decided, a peaceful place for families to gather. Z'ha'dum had been demolished quite efficiently and in its place now were piles of dirt and gravel and one giant, clean hole in the ground. The memories of what had happened underground were just that – memories. She looked down at the single carnation in her hand, then walked to the rectangular pit and knelt.

A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a slow, jagged path down her right cheek as she tossed the flower into the pit. She looked up – it would snow soon, one of those late winter snows that was all bark and no bite. The sky was overcast and an unmistakable pre-snowfall chill hung in the air. She pulled her coat tighter to her body as a shiver ran through her, and then she felt the warm presence of someone standing beside her.

"Ready?"

She looked up and smiled at her companion before returning her eyes to where the carnation had landed, a spot of white against the brown earth. "In a moment."

He nodded and offered a grunt of understanding, and then a second carnation joined the one that she had thrown. When she saw that, she turned to him, and he gently took each of her hands in his. "It's better this way." He pressed a single kiss to the top of her head. Hand in hand they walked to a nearby dirt pile and each took a handful, tossing them simultaneously into the pit. "A burial we couldn't give all of them."

"I'm sorry."

"What have I told you about apologizing for Anna?" John lifted her chin, smiled into her eyes. It was a sad smile, and not quite the same smile he'd had before going to Z'ha'dum. It was the smile of a man forever changed. But his lips met hers in a small, slow kiss on the lips, and she smiled back as it sent a warm wave through her body. Then he stepped back, took her hand again, and led her away from five years of memories.

They walked slowly – he was still unsteady, especially on his left leg. "You're still planning to go back to work tomorrow?" She asked after a long silence.

"I've been away long enough," he responded. "My body is healing well, and my mind… is as healed as it will ever be. Six months clean and sober." With his free hand, he reached for the smooth, round chip in his pocket and flipped it through his fingers once in thought. "And the people here… they need me."

"I need you." It slipped out before she could stop it, and they stopped walking, facing one another on the sidewalk. "I'm sorry. I—"

"Slow, remember?" He reached up, brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. "But for what it's worth… I don't know what I would've done in the last six months without you. I can guess, but I don't like any of the options." They gazed at each other for a long moment. "Come on," he said finally, glancing at the sky. "Let's go home."

* * *

Ivanova felt like she was having déjà vu. Coffee stain on clean white shirt? Check. Marcus trying to initiate a before-work romp? Check. Running very late? Check. She burst through the doors of BPD Headquarters, mumbling expletives under her breath. Maybe it was just something about Captain Sheridan that brought out this side of her.

"Commander Ivanova—"

"I know, I'm late," she relayed to the dispatcher. "And let me guess. Sheridan's already in my office."

The dispatcher blinked at her. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Fabulous." She breezed past the dispatcher and punched in her entry code.

Sheridan was most definitely already in her office, feet kicked up on her desk. He was again reading an open file, and again drinking from her "I don't like Mondays" coffee mug. But this was not the same overly confident man who had arrived in Babylon all those long months ago.

She suspected she wasn't quite the same person he remembered, either.

As she opened the door and entered her office, Sheridan set aside the file and started to get to his feet out of respect. Ivanova smiled at that – evidence of a changed man. "At ease," she told him with a small smile and a wave of her hand. Gratefully, Sheridan settled back against the chair. "How are you feeling?"

"I won't lie. I'm not 100 percent, but I'm feeling well enough to give orders and sign papers," he said honestly. "And I… miss… this," he admitted slowly. "And," he finished, "As I understand it, you need me here because you have a promotion waiting for you." He raised his eyebrows at her.

"I still don't know if I'm going to take it."

"Oh, come on. The only reason you don't want to move up is because you're afraid to let go of this place. You don't think anyone can run it as well as you do."

She was quiet for a long time. Sheridan folded his hands in front of himself, content to wait her out. "Do you know that every time you've come into my office like this, I've managed to spill coffee on my shirt in the morning?" She asked finally.

He stared at her incredulously. "Every time?" He asked finally. "This is only the second time. What, you're saying I'm a bad omen or something?"

She laughed at him and settled behind her desk. "What's in the file?"

"Shadows," he admitted, opening the file and turning it so she could read it. "Village of Narn. Just a small pocket, but we know how that goes. We missed two of the Board members in the takedown. My guess is they're building their own forces, seeking to become leaders themselves."

"I guess it's never really over, huh?"

"There will always be new battles to be fought," he reasoned. "Which is why we need someone like you as Chief of Police. You've been there; you know how to take them down. You've proven you can do it and if necessary you can do it again. You deserve it. You'd be great at it. You," Sheridan pointed a finger at her, waving it slightly, "Have a face people trust."

Ivanova grunted. That was not exactly what she'd been going for. "I'd rather have a face people fear."

"Well, that too. Both of those qualities would serve you well as Chief, to say nothing of your personality, your charisma, your…"

"And if I move on, the job of commanding BPD opens up for you."

"Well…"

"_If_ I take it – and I'm not saying I'm going to – who's to say I won't give that job to someone else? Sergeant Allan is recovered and due for a promotion, and Lieutenant Corwin—"

"Lieutenant Corwin said 'mostly' on the police radio," Sheridan challenged.

"Well, I'm just saying. As Chief I'd be in a position to appoint my replacement here. I might shop around."

"You might. You _won't_, but you might."

She sighed, deciding to let him know he'd called her bluff. She looked around the office. It was cluttered with years of memories, stacks of paperwork – the mark of someone who tried to be very organized about the fact that she worked too hard. "I sure am going to miss this place."

"I'll take good care of your city."

"I know you will."

She reached across her desk with an extended hand. Sheridan shook it. _Firm handshake_, she noted. _At least he's still got that going for him_.


End file.
